BULLDOG  CARNEY 
W.  A.  FRASER 


0*  CALIF.  1IBEm,   LOS 


BULLDOG  CARNEY 


BY 

W.  A.  ERASER 

AUTHOR  OF 

THE  THREE  SAPPHIRES, 
THOROUGHBREDS,  ETC. 


GROSSET    &     DUNLAP 

PUBLISHERS  NEW     YORK 


Copyright,  ipip, 
By  George  H.  Doran  Company 


Copyright,  1919,  "by  Street  &  Simth  Corporation 
Printed  in  the  United  States  of  America 


CONTENTS 

I   BULLDOG  CARNEY 

II   BULLDOG  CARNEY'S  ALIBI     ...           .     .  60 

III  OWNERS  UP ^ 

IV  THE  GOLD  WOLF 152 

V  SEVEN  BLUE  DOVES *97 

VI  EVIL  SPIRITS          .    , 26° 


2129576 


BULLDOG  CARNEY 


BULLDOG   CARNEY 


BULLDOG  CARNEY 

I'VE  thought  it  over  many  ways  and  I'm  going  to 
tell  this  story  as  it  happened,  for  I  believe  the  reader 
will  feel  he  is  getting  a  true  picture  of  things  as 
they  were  but  will  not  be  again.  A  little  padding 
up  of  the  love  interest,  a  little  spilling  of  blood, 
would,  perhaps,  make  it  stronger  technically,  but 
would  it  lessen  his  faith  that  the  curious  thing  hap- 
pened? It's  beyond  me  to  know — I  write  it  as  it 
was. 

To  begin  at  the  beginning,  Cameron  was  peeved. 
He  was  rather  a  diffident  chap,  never  merging  har- 
moniously into  the  western  atmosphere;  what  saved 
him  from  rude  knocks  was  the  fact  that  he  was  lean 
of  speech.  He  stood  on  the  board  sidewalk  in  front 
of  the  Alberta  Hotel  and  gazed  dejectedly  across 
a  trench  of  black  mud  that  represented  the  main 
street.  He  hated  the  sight  of  squalid,  ramshackle 
Edmonton,  but  still  more  did  he  dislike  the  turmoil 
that  was  within  the  hotel. 


10  BULLDOG  CARNEY 

A  lean-faced  man,  with  small  piercing  gray  eyes, 
had  ridden  his  buckskin  cayuse  into  the  bar  and  was 
buying.  Nagel's  furtrading  men,  topping  off  their 
spree  in  town  before  the  long  trip  to  Great  Slave 
Lake,  were  enthusiastically,  vociferously  naming 
their  tipple.  A  freighter,  Billy  the  Piper,  was  play- 
ing the  "Arkansaw  Traveller"  on  a  tin  whistle. 

When  the  gray-eyed  man  on  the  buckskin  pushed 
his  way  into  the  bar,  the  whistle  had  almost  clattered 
to  the  floor  from  the  piper's  hand ;  then  he  gasped, 
so  low  that  no  one  heard  him,  "By  cripes!  Bulldog 
Carney!"  There  was  apprehension  trembling  in 
his  hushed  voice.  Well  he  knew  that  if  he  had 
clarioned  the  name  something  would  have  happened 
Billy  the  Piper.  A  quick  furtive  look  darting  over 
the  faces  of  his  companions  told  him  that  no  one 
else  had  recognized  the  horseman. 

Outside,  Cameron,  irritated  by  the  rasping  tin 
whistle  groaned,  "My  God!  a  land  of  bums!" 
Three  days  he  had  waited  to  pick  up  a  man  to 
replace  a  member  of  his  gang  down  at  Fort  Victor 
who  had  taken  a  sudden  chill  through  intercepting  a 
plug  of  cold  lead. 

Diagonally  across  the  lane  of  ooze  two  men  waded 
and  clambered  to  the  board  sidewalk  just  beside 
Cameron  to  stamp  the  muck  from  their  boots.  One 
of  the  two,  Cayuse  Gray,  spoke : 

"This  feller'll  pull  his  freight  with  you,  boss,  if 
terms  is  right;  he's  a  hell  of  a  worker." 

Half  turning,  Cameron's  Scotch  eyes  took  keen 
cognizance  of  the  "feller":  a  shudder  twitched  his 


BULLDOG  CARNEY  11 

shoulders.  He  had  never  seen  a  more  wolfish  face 
set  atop  a  man's  neck.  It  was  a  sinister  face;  not 
the  thin,  vulpine  sneak  visage  of  a  thief,  but  lower- 
ing; black  sullen  eyes  peered  boldly  up  from  under 
shaggy  brows  that  almost  met  a  mop  of  black  hair, 
the  forehead  was  so  low.  It  was  a  hungry  face, 
as  if  its  owner  had  a  standing  account  against  the 
world.  But  Cameron  wanted  a  strong  worker,  and 
his  business  instinct  found  strength  and  endurance  in 
that  heavy-shouldered  frame,  and  strong,  wide-set 
legs. 

"What's  your  name?"  he  asked. 

"Jack  Wolf,"  the  man  answered. 

The  questioner  shivered ;  it  was  as  if  the  speaker 
had  named  the  thought  that  was  in  his  mind. 

Cayuse  Gray  tongued  a  chew  of  tobacco  into  his 
cheek,  spat,  and  added,  "Jack  the  Wolf  is  what  he 
gets  most  oftenest." 

"From  damn  broncho-headed  fools,"  Wolf  re- 
torted angrily. 

At  that  instant  a  strangling  Salvation  Army  band 
tramped  around  the  corner  into  Jasper  Avenue,  and, 
forming  a  circle,  cut  loose  with  brass  and  tambourine. 
As  the  wail  from  the  instruments  went  up  the  men 
in  the  bar,  led  by  Billy  thetPiper,  swarmed  out. 

A  half-breed  roared  out  a  profane  parody  on  the 
Salvation  hymn: — 

"There  are  flies  on  you,  and  there're  flies  on 

me, 
But  there  ain't  no  flies  on  Je-e-e-sus." 


12  BULLDOG  CARNEY 

This  crude  humor  appealed  to  the  men  who  had 
issued  from  the  bar;  they  shouted  in  delight. 

A  girl  who  had  started  forward  with  her  tam- 
bourine to  collect  stood  aghast  at  the  profanity,  her 
blue  eyes  wide  in  horror. 

The  breed  broke  into  a  drunken  laugh:  "That's 
damn  fine  new  songs  for  de  Army  bums,  Miss,"  he 
jeered. 

The  buckskin  cayuse,  whose  mouse-colored  muzzle 
had  been  sticking  through  the  door,  now  pushed  to 
the  sidewalk,  and  his  rider,  stooping  his  lithe  figure, 
took  the  right  ear  of  the  breed  in  lean  bony  fingers 
with  a  grip  that  suggested  he  was  squeezing  a  lemon. 
"You  dirty  swine!"  he  snarled;  "you're  insulting 
the  two  greatest  things  on  earth — God  and  a  woman. 
Apologize,  you  hound!" 

Probably  the  breed  would  have  capitulated  read- 
ily, but  his  river-mates'  ears  were  not  in  a  death 
grip,  and  they  were  bellicose  with  bad  liquor.  There 
was  an  angry  yell  of  defiance;  events  moved  with 
alacrity.  Profanity,  the  passionate  profanity  of 
anger,  smote  the  air;  a  beer  bottle  hurtled  through 
the  open  door,  missed  its  mark, — the  man  on  the 
buckskin, — but,  end  on,  found  a  bull's-eye  between 
the  Wolf's  shoulder  blades,  and  that  gentleman  dove 
parabolically  into  the  black  mud  of  Jasper  Avenue. 

A  silence  smote  the  Salvation  Army  band.  Like 
the  Arab  it  folded  its/instruments  and  stole  away. 

A  Mounted  Policeman,  attracted  by  the  clamour, 
reined  his  horse  to  the  sidewalk  to  quiet  with  a  few 
words  of  admonition  this  bar-room  row.  He  slipped 


13 

from  the  saddle;  but  at  the  second  step  forward  he 
checked  as  the  thin  face  of  the  horseman  turned  and 
the  steel-gray  eyes  met  his  own.  "Get  down  off 
that  cayuse,  Bulldog  Carney, — I  want  you!"  he  com- 
manded in  sharp  clicking  tones. 

Happenings  followed  this.  There  was  the  bark 
of  a  6-gun,  a  flash,  the  Policeman's  horse  jerked  his 
head  spasmodically,  a  little  jet  of  red  spurted  from 
his  forehead,  and  he  collapsed,  his  knees  burrowing 
into  the  black  mud  and  as  the  buckskin  cleared  the 
sidewalk  in  a  leap,  the  half-breed,  two  steel-like 
fingers  in  his  shirt  band,  was  swung  behind  the  rider. 

With  a  spring  like  a  panther  the  policeman 
reached  his  fallen  horse,  but  as  he  swung  his  gun 
from  its  holster  he  held  it  poised  silent;  to  shoot 
was  to  kill  the  breed. 

Fifty  yards  down  the  street  Carney  dumped  his 
burden  into  a  deep  puddle,  and  with  a  ringing  cry 
of  defiance  sped  away.  Half-a-dozen  guns  were 
out  and  barking  vainly  after  the  escaping  man. 

Carney  cut  down  the  bush-road  that  wound  its 
sinuous  way  to  the  river  flat,  some  two  hundred 
feet  below  the  town  level.  The  ferry,  swinging  from 
the  steel  hawser,  that  stretched  across  the  river, 
was  snuggling  the  bank. 

"Some  luck,"  the  rider  of  the  buckskin  chuckled. 
To  the  ferryman  he  said  in  a  crisp  voice:  "Cut 
her  out;  I'm  in  a  hurry!" 

The  ferryman  grinned.  "For  one  passenger,  eh? 
Might  you  happen  to  be  the  Gov'nor  General,  by  any 
chanct?" 


14.  BULLDOG  CARNEY 

Carney's  handy  gun  held  its  ominous  eye  on  the 
boatman,  and  its  owner  answered,  "I  happen  to  be 
a  man  in  a  hell  of  a  hurry.  If  you  want  to  travel 
with  me  get  busy." 

The  thin  lips  of  the  speaker  had  puckered  till 
they  resembled  a  slit  in  a  dried  orange.  The  small 
gray  eyes  were  barely  discernible  between  the  half- 
closed  lids;  there  was  something  devilish  compell- 
ing in  that  lean  parchment  face ;  it  told  of  demoniac 
concentration  in  the  brain  behind. 

The  ferryman  knew.  With  a  pole  he  swung  the 
stern  of  the  flat  barge  down  stream,  the  iron  pulleys 
on  the  cable  whined  a  screeching  protest,  the  haw- 
sers creaked,  the  swift  current  wedged  against  the 
tangented  side  of  the  ferry,  and  swiftly  Bulldog 
Carney  and  his  buckskin  were  shot  across  the  muddy 
old  Saskatchewan. 

On  the  other  side  he  handed  the  boatman  a  five- 
dollar  bill,  and  with  a  grim  smile  said:  "Take  a 
little  stroll  with  me  to  the  top  of  the  hill;  there's 
some  drunken  bums  across  there  whose  company  I 
don't  want." 

At  the  top  of  the  south  bank  Carney  mounted  his 
buckskin  and  melted  away  into  the  poplar-covered 
landscape;  stepped  out  of  the  story  for  the  time 
being. 

Back  at  the  Alberta  the  general  assembly  was 
rearranging  itself.  The  Mounted  Policeman,  now 
set  afoot  by  the  death  of  his  horse,  had  hurried 
down  to  the  barracks  to  report;  possibly  to  follow 
up  Carney's  trail  with  a  new  mount. 


BULLDOG  CARNEY  15 

The  half-breed  had  come  back  from  the  puddle 
a  thing  of  black  ooze  and  profanity. 

Jack  the  Wolf,  having  dug  the  mud  from  his  eyes, 
and  ears,  and  neck  band,  was  in  the  hotel  making 
terms  with  Cameron  for  the  summer's  work  at  Fort 
Victor. 

Billy  the  Piper  was  revealing  intimate  history  of 
Bulldog  Carney.  From  said  narrative  it  appeared 
that  Bulldog  was  as  humorous  a  bandit  as  ever  slit 
a  throat.  Billy  had  freighted  whisky  for  Carney 
when  that  gentleman  was  king  of  the  booze  runners. 

"Why  didn't  you  spill  the  beans,  Billy?"  Nagel 
queried;  "there's  a  thousand  on  Carney's  head  all 
the  time.  We'd  Ve  tied  him  horn  and  hoof  and 
copped  the  dough." 

"Dif'rent  here,"  the  Piper  growled;  "I've  saw  a 
man  flick  his  gun  and  pot  at  Carney  when  Bulldog 
told  him  to  throw  up  his  hands,  and  all  that  cuss 
did  was  laugh  and  thrown  his  own  gun  up  coverin' 
the  other  broncho;  but  it  was  enough — the  other 
guy's  hands  went  up  too  quick.  If  I'd  set  the  pack 
on  him,  havin'  so  to  speak  no  just  cause,  well,  Nagel, 
you'd  been  lookin'  round  for  another  freighter. 
He's  the  queerest  cuss  I  ever  stacked  up  agen.  It 
kinder  seems  as  if  jokes  is  his  religion;  an'  when 
he's  out  to  play  he's  plumb  hostile.  Don't  monkey 
none  with  his  game,  is  my  advice  to  you  fellers." 

Nagel  stepped  to  the  door,  thrust  his  swarthy  face 
through  it,  and,  seeing  that  the  policeman  had  gone, 
came  back  to  the  bar  and  said :  "Boys,  the  drinks 
is  on  me  cause  I  see  a  man,  a  real  man." 


16  BULLDOG  CARNEY 

He  poured  whisky  into  a  glass  and  waited  with  it 
held  high  till  the  others  had  done  likewise ;  then  he 
said  in  a  voice  that  vibrated  with  admiration : 

"Here's  to  Bulldog  Carney!  Gad,  I  love  a  man! 
When  that  damn  trooper  calls  him,  what  does  he 
do?  You  or  me  would  Ve  quit  cold  or  plugged 
Mister  Khaki-jacket — we'd  had  to.  Not  so  Bull-' 
dog.  He  thinks  with  his  nut,  and  both  hands,  and 
both  feet;  I  don't  need  to  tell  you  boys  what  hap- 
pened; you  see  it,  and  it  were  done  pretty.  Here's 
to  Bulldog  Carney!"  Nagel  held  his  hand  out  to 
the  Piper:  "Shake,  Billy.  If  you'd  give  that  cuss 
away  I'd  Ve  kicked  you  into  kingdom  come,  knowin' 
him  as  I  do  now." 

The  population  of  Fort  Victor,  drawing  the  color 
line,  was  four  people :  the  Hudson's  Bay  Factor,  a 
missionary  minister  and  his  wife,  and  a  school 
teacher,  Lucy  Black.  Half-breeds  and  Indians  came 
and  went,  constituting  a  floating  population;  Cam- 
aron  and  his  men  were  temporary  citizens. 

Lucy  Black  was  lathy  of  construction,  several 
years  past  her  girlhood,  and  not  an  animated  girl. 
She  was  a  professional  religionist.  If  there  were 
seeming  voids  in  her  life  they  were  filled  with  this 
dominating  passion  of  moral  reclamation;  if  she 
worked  without  enthusiasm  she  made  up  for  it  in 
insistent  persistence.  It  was  as  if  a  diluted  strain 
of  the  old  Inquisition  had  percolated  down  through 
the  blood  of  centuries  and  found  a  subdued  existence 
in  this  pale-haired,  blue-eyed  woman. 


BULLDOG  CARNEY  17 

When  Cameron  brought  Jack  the  Wolf  to  Fort 
Victor  it  was  evident  to  the  little  teacher  that  he  was 
morally  an  Augean  stable :  a  man  who  wandered  in 
mental  darkness;  his  soul  was  dying  for  want  of 
spiritual  nourishment. 

On  the  seventy-mile  ride  in  the  Red  River  buck- 
board  from  Edmonton  to  Fort  Victor  the  morose 
wolf  had  punctuated  every  remark  with  virile  oaths, 
their  original  angularity  suggesting  that  his  medita* 
tive  moments  were  spent  in  coining  appropriate  ex- 
pressions for  his  perfervid  view  of  life.  Twice 
Cameron's  blood  had  surged  hot  as  the  Wolf,  at 
some  trifling  perversity  of  the  horses,  had  struck 
viciously. 

Perhaps  it  was  the  very  soullessness  of  the  Wolf 
that  roused  the  religious  fanaticism  of  the  little 
school  teacher;  or  perhaps  it  was  that  strange  con- 
trariness in  nature  that  causes  the  widely  divergent 
to  lean  eachotherward.  At  any  rate  a  miracle  grew 
in  Fort  Victor.  Jack  the  Wolf  and  the  little  teacher 
strolled  together  in  the  evening  as  the  great  sun 
swept  down  over  the  rolling  prairie  to  the  west;  and 
sometimes  the  full-faced  moon,  topping  the  poplar 
bluffs  to  the  east,  found  Jack  slouching  at  Lucy's 
feet  while  she,  sitting  on  a  camp  stool,  talked  Bible 
to  him. 

At  first  Cameron  rubbed  his  eyes  as  if  his  Scotch 
vision  had  somehow  gone  agley;  but,  gradually, 
whatever  incongruity  had  manifested  at  first  died 
away. 

As  a  worker  Wolf  was  wonderful ;  his  thirst  for 


18  BULLDOG  CARNEY 

toil  was  like  his  thirst  for  moral  betterment — in- 
satiable. The  missionary  in  a  chat  with  Cameron 
explained  it  very  succinctly:  "Wolf,  like  many  other 
Westerners,  had  never  had  a  chance  to  know  the 
difference  between  right  and  wrong;  but  the  One 
who  missed  not  the  sparrow's  fall  had  led  him  to 
the  port  of  salvation,  Fort  Victor — Glory  to  God! 
The  poor  fellow's  very  wickedness  was  but  the  re- 
sult of  neglect.  Lucy  was  the  worker  in  the  Lord's 
vineyard  who  had  been  chosen  to  lead  this  man  into 
a  better  life. 

It  did  seem  very  simple,  very  all  right.  Tough 
characters  were  always  being  saved  all  over  the 
world — regenerated,  metamorphosed,  and  who  was 
Jack  the  Wolf  that  he  should  be  excluded  from  sal- 
vation. 

At  any  rate  Cameron's  survey  gang,  vitalized  by 
the  abnormal  energy  of  Wolf,  became  a  high- 
powered  machine. 

The  half-breeds,  when  couraged  by  bad  liquor, 
shed  their  religion  and  became  barbaric,  vulgarly 
vicious.  The  missionary  had  always  waited  until 
this  condition  had  passed,  then  remonstrance  and  a 
gift  of  bacon  with,  perhaps,  a  bag  of  flour,  had 
brought  repentance.  This  method  Jack  the  Wolf 
declared  was  all  wrong;  the  breeds  were  like  train- 
dogs,  he  affirmed,  and  should  be  taught  respect  for 
God's  agents  in  a  proper  muscular  manner.  So  the 
first  time  three  French  half-breeds,  enthusiastically 
drunk,  invaded  the  little  log  schoolhouse  and  de- 
clared school  was  out,  sending  the  teacher  home  with 


BULLDOG  CARNEY  19 

tears  of  shame  in  her  blue  eyes,  Jack  reestablished 
the  dignity  of  the  church  by  generously  walloping 
the  three  backsliders. 

It  is  wonderful  how  the  solitude  of  waste  places 
will  blossom  the  most  ordinary  woman  into  a  flower 
of  delight  to  the  masculine  eye;  and  the  lean,  anse- 
mic,  scrawny-haired  school  teacher  had  held  as  ad- 
mirers all  of  Cameron's  gang,  and  one  Sergeant 
Heath  of  the  Mounted  Police  whom  she  had  known 
in  the  Klondike,  and  who  had  lately  come  to  Edmon- 
ton. With  her  negative  nature  she  had  appreciated 
them  pretty  much  equally;  but  when  the  business  of 
salvaging  this  prairie  derelict  came  to  hand  the 
others  were  practically  ignored. 

For  two  months  Fort  Victor  was  thus ;  the  Wolf 
always  the  willing  worker  and  well  on  the  way, 
seemingly,  to  redemption. 

Cameron's  foreman,  Bill  Slade,  a  much-whiskered, 
wise  old  man,  was  the  only  one  of  little  faith.  Once 
he  said  to  Cameron: 

"I  don't  like  it  none  too  much;  it  takes  no  end  of 
worry  to  make  a  silk  purse  out  of  a  sow's  ear;  Jack 
has  blossomed  too  quick;  he's  a  booze  fighter,  and 
that  kind  always  laps  up  mental  stimulants  to  keep 
the  blue  devils  away." 

"You're  doing  the  lad  an  injustice,  I  think,"  Cam- 
eron said.  "I  was  prejudiced  myself  at  first." 

Slade  pulled  a  heavy  hand  three  times  down  his 
big  beard,  spat  a  shaft  of  tobacco  juice,  took  his  hat 
off,  straightened  out  a  couole  of  dents  in  it,  and  put 
it  back  on  his  head: 


20  BULLDOG  CARNEY 

"You  best  stick  to  that  prejudice  feeling,  Boss — • 
first  guesses  about  a  feller  most  gener'ly  pans  out 
pretty  fair.  And  I'd  keep  an  eye  kinder  skinned  if 
you  have  any  fuss  with  Jack;  I  see  him  look  at  you 
once  or  twice  when  you  corrected  his  way  of  doin' 
things." 

Cameron  laughed. 

"  'Tain't  no  laughin'  matter,  Boss.  When  a  fel- 
ler's been  used  to  cussin'  like  hell  he  can't  keep 
healthy  bottlin'  it  up.  And  all  that  dirtiness  that's 
in  the  Wolf  '11  bust  out  some  day  same's  you  touched 
a  match  to  a  tin  of  powder;  he'll  throw  back." 

"There's  nobody  to  worry  about  except  the  little 
school  teacher,"  Cameron  said  meditatively. 

This  time  it  was  Slade  who  chuckled.  "The  school- 
mam's  as  safe  as  houses.  She  ain't  got  a  pint  of  red 
blood  in  'em  blue  veins  of  hers,  'tain't  nothin'  but 
vinegar.  Jack's  just  tryin'  to  sober  up  on  her  re- 
ligion, that's  all;  it  kind  of  makes  him  forget  horse 
stealin'  an'  such  while  he  makes  a  stake  workin' 
here." 

Then  one  morning  Jack  had  passed  into  peri- 
helion. 

Cameron  took  his  double-barreled  shot  gun,  mean- 
ing to  pick  up  some  prairie  chicken  while  he  was  out 
looking  over  his  men's  work.  As  he  passed  the 
shack  where  his  men  bunked  he  noticed  the  door 
open.  This  was  careless,  for  train  dogs  were  always 
prowling  about  for  just  such  a  chance  for  loot.  He 
stepped  through  the  door  and  took  a  peep  into  the 


BULLDOG  CARNEY  21 

other  room.  There  sat  the  Wolf  at  a  pine  table 
playing  solitaire. 

"What's  the  matter?"  the  Scotchman  asked. 

"I've  quit,"  the  Wolf  answered  surlily. 

"Quit?"  Cameron  queried.  "The  gang  can't 
carry  on  without  a  chain  man." 

"I  don't  care  a  damn.  It  don't  make  no  dif'rence 
to  me.  I'm  sick  of  that  tough  bunch — swearin'  and 
cussin',  and  tellin'  smutty  stories  all  day;  a  man 
can't  keep  decent  in  that  outfit." 

"Ma  God!"  Startled  by  this,  Cameron  harked 
back  to  his  most  expressive  Scotch. 

"You  needn't  swear  'bout  it,  Boss;  you  yourself 
ain't  never  give  me  no  square  deal;  you've  treated 
me  like  a  breed." 

This  palpable  lie  fired  Cameron's  Scotch  blood; 
also  the  malignant  look  that  Slade  had  seen  was 
now  in  the  wolfish  eyes.  It  was  a  murder  look,  en- 
hanced by  the  hypocritical  attitude  Jack  had  taken. 

"You're  a  scoundrel!"  Cameron  blurted;  "I 
wouldn't  keep  you  on  the  work.  The  sooner  Fort 
Victor  is  shut  of  you  the  better  for  all  hands,  espe- 
cially the  women  folks.  You're  a  scoundrel." 

Jack  sprang  to  his  feet;  his  hand  went  back  to  a 
hip  pocket;  but  his  blazing  wolfish  eyes  were  look- 
ing into  the  muzzle  of  the  double-barrel  gun  that 
Cameron  had  swung  straight  from  his  hip,  both 
fingers  on  the  triggers. 

"Put  your  hands  flat  on  the  table,  you  black- 
guard," Cameron  commanded.  "If  I  weren't  a 
married  man  I'd  blow  the  top  of  your  head  off; 


22  BULLDOG  CARNEY 

you're  no  good  on  earth;  you'd  be  better  dead,  but 
my  wife  would  worry  because  I  did  the  deed." 

The  Wolf's  empty  hand  had  come  forward  and 
was  placed,  palm  downward,  on  the  table. 

"Now,  you  hound,  you're  just  a  bluffer.  I'll  show 
you  what  I  think  of  you.  I'm  going  to  turn  my  back, 
walk  out,  and  send  a  breed  up  to  Fort  Saskatchewan 
for  a  policeman  to  gather  you  in." 

Cameron  dropped  the  muzzle  of  his  gun,  turned 
on  his  heel  and  started  out. 

"Come  back  and  settle  with  me,"  the  Wolf  de- 
manded. 

"I'll  settle  with  you  in  jail,  you  blackguard!" 
Cameron  threw  over  his  shoulder,  stalking  on. 

Plodding  along,  not  without  nervous  twitchings  of 
apprehension,  the  Scotchman  heard  behind  him  the 
voice  of  the  Wolf  saying.  "Don't  do  that,  Mr. 
Cameron ;  I  flew  off  the  handle  and  so  did  you,  but 
I  didn't  mean  nothin'." 

Cameron,  ignoring  the  Wolf's  plea,  went  along 
to  his  shack  and  wrote  a  note,  the  ugly  visage  of  the 
Wolf  hovering  at  the  open  door.  He  was  humbled, 
beaten.  Gun-play  in  Montana,  where  the  Wolf  had 
left  a  bad  record,  was  one  thing,  but  with  a  cordon 
of  Mounted  Police  between  him  and  the  border  it 
was  a  different  matter;  also  he  was  wanted  for  a 
more  serious  crime  than  a  threat  to  shoot,  and  once 
in  the  toils  this  might  crop  up.  So  he  pleaded.  But 
Cameron  was  obdurate;  the  Wolf  had  no  right  to 
stick  up  his  work  and  quit  at  a  moment's  notice. 

Then  Jack  had  an  inspiration.    He  brought  Lucy 


BULLDOG  CARNEY  23 

Black.  Like  woman  of  all  time  her  faith  having 
been  given  she  stood  pat,  a  flush  rouging  her 
bleached  cheeks  as,  earnest  in  her  mission,  she 
pleaded  for  the  "wayward  boy,"  as  she  euphemisti- 
cally designated  this  coyote.  Cameron  was  to  let 
him  go  to  lead  the  better  life;  thrown  into  the  pen 
of  the  police  barracks,  among  bad  characters,  he 
would  become  contaminated.  The  police  had  al- 
ways persecuted  her  Jack. 

Cameron  mentally  exclaimed  again,  "Ma  God!" 
as  he  saw  tears  in  the  neutral  blue-tinted  eyes.  In- 
deed it  was  time  that  the  Wolf  sought  a  new  run- 
way. He  had  a  curious  Scotch  reverence  for  women, 
and  was  almost  reconciled  to  the  loss  of  a  man  over 
the  breaking  up  of  this  situation. 

Jack  was  paid  the  wages  due;  but  at  his  request 
for  a  horse  to  take  him  back  to  Edmonton  the 
Scotchman  laughed.  "I'm  not  making  presents  of 
horses  to-day,"  he  said;  "and  I'll  take  good  care 
that  nobody  else  here  is  shy  a  horse  when  you  go, 
Jack.  You'll  take  the  hoof  express — it's  good 
enough  for  you." 

So  the  Wolf  tramped  out  of  Fort  Victor  with  a 
pack  slung  over  his  shoulder;  and  the  next  day  Ser- 
geant Heath  swung  into  town  looking  very  debonaire 
in  his  khaki,  sitting  atop  the  bright  blood-bay  police 
horse. 

He  hunted  up  Cameron,  saying:  "You've  a  man 
here  that  I  want — Jack  Wolf.  They've  found  his 
prospecting  partner  dead  up  on  the  Smoky  River, 


24  BULLDOG  CARNEY 

with  a  bullet  hole  in  the  back  of  his  head.    We  want 
Jack  at  Edmonton  to  explain." 

"He's  gone." 

"Gone!    When?" 

"Yesterday." 

The  Sergeant  stared  helplessly  at  the  Scotchman. 

A  light  dawned  upon  Cameron.  "Did  you,  by 
any  chance,  send  word  that  you  were  coming?"  he 
asked. 

"I'll  be  back,  mister,"  and  Heath  darted  from 
the  shack,  swung  to  his  saddle,  and  galloped  toward 
the  little  log  school  house. 

Cameron  waited.  In  half  an  hour  the  Sergeant 
was  back,  a  troubled  look  in  his  face. 

"I'll  tell  you,"  he  said  dejectedly,  "women  are 
hell;  they  ought  to  be  interned  when  there's  busi- 
ness on." 

"The  little  school  teacher?" 

"The  little  fool!" 

"You  trusted  her  and  wrote  you  were  coming, 
eh?" 

"I  did." 

"Then,  my  friend,  I'm  afraid  you  were  the  foolish 
one." 

"How  was  I  to  know  that  rustler  had  been  'mak- 
ing bad  medicine' — had  put  the  evil  eye  on  Lucy? 
Gad,  man,  she's  plumb  locoed;  she  stuck  up  for  him; 
spun  me  the  most  glimmering  tale — she's  got  a  dime 
novel  skinned  four  ways  of  the  pack.  According  to 
her  the  police  stood  in  with  Bulldog  Carney  on  a 
train  holdup,  and  made  this  poor  innocent  lamb  the 


BULLDOG  CARNEY  25 

goat.  They  persecuted  him,  and  he  had  to  flee. 
Now  he's  given  his  heart  to  God,  and  has  gone  away 
to  buy  a  ranch  and  send  for  Lucy,  where  the  two  of 
them  are  to  live  happy  ever  after." 

"Ma  God!"  the  Scotchman  cried  with  vehemence. 

"That  bean-headed  affair  in  calico  gave  him  five 
hundred  she's  pinched  up  against  her  chest  for 
years." 

Cameron  gasped  and  stared  blankly;  even  his 
reverent  exclamatory  standby  seemed  inadequate. 

"What  time  yesterday  did  the  Wolf  pull  out?" 
the  Sergeant  asked. 

"About  three  o'clock." 

"Afoot?" 

"Yes." 

"He'll  rustle  a  cayuse  the  first  chance  he  gets,  but 
if  he  stays  afoot  he'll  hit  Edmonton  to-night,  seventy 
miles." 

"To  catch  the  morning  train  for  Calgary,"  Cam- 
eron suggested. 

"You  don't  know  the  Wolf,  Boss;  he's  got  his 
namesake  of  the  forest  skinned  to  death  when  it 
comes  to  covering  up  his  trail — no  train  for  him 
now  that  he  knows  I'm  on  his  track;  he'll  just  touch 
civilization  for  grub  till  he  makes  the  border  for 
Montana.  I've  got  to  get  him.  If  you'll  stake  me 
to  a  fill-up  of  bacon  and  a  chew  of  oats  for  the  horse 
I'll  eat  and  pull  out." 

In  an  hour  Sergeant  Heath  shook  hands  with 
Cameron  saying:  "If  you'll  just  not  say  a  word 
about  how  that  cuss  got  the  message  I'll  be  much 


26  BULLDOG  CARNEY 

obliged.    It  would  break  me  if  it  dribbled  to  head- 
quarters." 

Then  he  rode  down  the  ribbon  of  roadway  that 
wound  to  the  river  bed,  forded  the  old  Saskatche- 
wan that  was  at  its  summer  depth,  mounted  the 
south  bank  and  disappeared. 

When  Jack  the  Wolf  left  Fort  Victor  he  headed 
straight  for  a  little  log  shack,  across  the  river,  where 
Descoign,  a  French  half-breed,  lived.  The  family 
was  away  berry  picking,  and  Jack  twisted  a  rope 
into  an  Indian  bridle  and  borrowed  a  cayuse  from 
the  log  corral.  The  cayuse  was  some  devil,  and 
that  evening,  thirty  miles  south,  he  chewed  loose  the 
rope  hobble  on  his  two  front  feet,  and  left  the  Wolf 
afoot. 

Luck  set  in  against  Jack  just  there,  for  he  found 
no  more  borrowable  horses  till  he  came  to  where 
the  trail  forked  ten  miles  short  of  Fort  Saskatche- 
wan. To  the  right,  running  southwest,  lay  the  well 
beaten  trail  that  passed  through  Fort  Saskatchewan 
to  cross  the  river  and  on  to  Edmonton.  The  trail 
that  switched  to  the  left,  running  southeast,  was  the 
old,  now  rarely-used  one  that  stretched  away  hun- 
dreds of  miles  to  Winnipeg. 

The  Wolf  was  a  veritable  Indian  in  his  slow  cun- 
ning; a  gambler  where  money  was  the  stake,  but 
where  his  freedom,  perhaps  his  life,  was  involved 
he  could  wait,  and  wait,  and  play  the  game  more 
than  safe.  The  Winnipeg  trail  would  be  deserted — 
Jack  knew  that;  a  man  could  travel  it  the  round  of 


BULLDOG  CARNEY  27 

the  clock  and  meet  nobody,  most  like.  Seventy  miles 
beyond  he  could  leave  it,  and  heading  due  west, 
strike  the  Calgary  railroad  and  board  a  train  at 
some  small  station.  No  notice  would  be  taker  of 
him,  for  trappers,  prospectors,  men  from  distant 
ranches,  morose,  untalkative  men,  were  always  drift- 
ing toward  the  rails,  coming  up  out  of  the  silent  soli- 
tudes of  the  wastes,  unquestioned  and  unquestioning. 

The  Wolf  knew  that  he  would  be  followed;  he 
knew  that  Sergeant  Heath  would  pull  out  on  his 
trail  and  follow  relentlessly,  seeking  the  glory  of 
capturing  his  man  single-handed.  That  was  the 
esprit  de  corps  of  these  riders  of  the  prairies,  and 
Heath  was,  par  excellence,  large  in  conceit, 

A  sinister  sneer  lifted  the  upper  lip  of  the  trailing 
man  until  his  strong  teeth  glistened  like  veritable 
wolf  fangs.  He  had  full  confidence  in  his  ability  to 
outguess  Sergeant  Heath  or  any  other  Mounted 
Policeman. 

He  had  stopped  at  the  fork  of  the  trail  long 
enough  to  light  his  pipe,  looking  down  the  Fort 
Saskatchewan-Edmonton  road  thinking.  He  knew 
the  old  Winnipeg  trail  ran  approximately  ten  or 
twelve  miles  east  of  the  railroad  south  for  a  hun- 
dred miles  or  more ;  where  it  crossed  a  trail  running 
into  Red  Deer,  half-way  between  Edmonton  and 
Calgary,  it  was  about  ten  miles  east  of  that  town. 

He  swung  his  blanket  pack  to  his  back  and 
stepped  blithely  along  the  Edmonton  chocolate- 
colored  highway  muttering :  "You  red-coated  snobs, 
you're  waiting  for  Jack.  A  nice  baited  trap.  And 


28  BULLDOG  CARNEY 

behind,  herding  me  in,  my  brave  Sergeant.  Well, 
I'm  coming." 

Where  there  was  a  matrix  of  black  mud  he  took 
care  to  leave  a  footprint;  where  there  was  dust  he 
walked  in  it,  in  one  or  the  other  of  the  ever  persist- 
ing two  furrow-like  paths  that  had  been  worn 
through  the  strong  prairie  turf  by  the  hammering 
hoofs  of  two  horses  abreast,  and  grinding  wheels  of 
wagon  and  buckboard.  For  two  miles  he  followed 
the  trail  till  he  sighted  a  shack  with  a  man  chopping 
in  the  front  yard.  Here  the  Wolf  went  in  and 
begged  some  matches  and  a  drink  of  milk;  inci- 
dentally he  asked  how  far  it  was  to  Edmonton. 
Then  he  went  back  to  the  trail — still  toward  Ed- 
monton. The  Wolf  had  plenty  of  matches,  and  he 
didn't  need  the  milk,  but  the  man  would  tell  Sergeant 
Heath  when  he  came  along  of  the  one  he  had  seen 
heading  for  Edmonton. 

For  a  quarter  of  a  mile  Jack  walked  on  the  turf 
beside  the  road,  twice  putting  down  a  foot  in  the 
dust  to  make  a  print;  then  he  walked  on  the  road 
for  a  short  distance  and  again  took  to  the  turf.  He 
saw  a  rig  coming  from  behind,  and  popped  into  a 
cover  of  poplar  bushes  until  it  had  passed.  Then  he 
went  back  to  the  road  and  left  prints  of  his  feet  in 
the  black  soft  dust,  that  would  indicate  that  he  had 
climbed  into  a  waggon  here  from  behind.  This  ac- 
complished he  turned  east  across  the  prairie,  reach- 
ing the  old  Winnipeg  trail,  a  mile  away;  then  he 
turned  south. 

At  noon  he  came  to  a  little  lake  and  ate  his  bacon 


BULLDOG  CARNEY  29 

raw,  not  risking  the  smoke  of  a  fire ;  then  on  in  that 
tireless  Indian  plod — toes  in,  and  head  hung  for- 
ward, that  is  so  easy  on  the  working  joints — hour 
after  hour;  it  was  not  a  walk,  it  was  more  like  the 
dog-trot  of  a  cayuse,  easy  springing  short  steps,  al- 
ways on  the  balls  of  his  wide  strong  feet. 

At  five  he  ate  again,  then  on.  He  travelled  till 
midnight,  the  shadowy  gloom  having  blurred  his 
path  at  ten  o'clock.  Then  he  slept  in  a  thick  clump 
of  saskatoon  bushes. 

At  three  it  was  daylight,  and  screened  as  he  was 
and  thirsting  for  his  drink  of  hot  tea,  he  built  a 
small  fire  and  brewed  the  inspiring  beverage.  On 
forked  sticks  he  broiled  some  bacon ;  then  on  again. 

All  day  he  travelled.  In  the  afternoon  elation 
began  to  creep  into  his  veins ;  he  was  well  past  Ed- 
monton now.  At  night  he  would  take  the  dipper  on 
his  right  hand  and  cut  across  the  prairie  straight 
west;  by  morning  he  would  reach  steel;  the  train 
leaving  Edmonton  would  come  along  about  ten,  and 
he  would  be  in  Calgary  that  night.  Then  he  could 
go  east,  or  west,  or  south  to  the  Montana  border  by 
rail.  Heath  would  go  on  to  Edmonton;  the  police 
would  spend  two  or  three  days  searching  all  the 
shacks  and  Indian  and  half-breed  camps,  and  they 
would  watch  the  daily  outgoing  train. 

There  was  one  chance  that  they  might  wire  Cal- 
gary to  look  out  for  him ;  but  there  was  no  course 
open  without  some  risk  of  capture ;  he  was  up  against 
that  possibility.  It  was  a  gamble,  and  he  was  play- 
ing his  hand  the  best  he  knew  how  Even  approach- 


30  BULLDOG  CARNEY 

ing  Calgary  he  would  swing  from  the  train  on  some 
grade,  and  work  his  way  into  town  at  night  to  a 
shack  where  Montana  Dick  lived.  Dick  would 
know  what  was  doing. 

Toward  evening  the  trail  gradually  swung  to  the 
east  skirting  muskeg  country.  At  first  the  Wolf  took 
little  notice  of  the  angle  of  detour;  he  was  thankful 
he  followed  a  trail,  for  trails  never  led  one  into  im- 
passable country;  the  muskeg  would  run  out  and  the 
trail  swing  west  again.  But  for  two  hours  he 
plugged  along,  quickening  his  pace,  for  he  realized 
now  that  he  was  covering  miles  which  had  to  be 
made  up  when  he  swung  west  again. 

Perhaps  it  was  the  depressing  continuance  of  the 
desolate  muskeg  through  which  the  shadowy  figures 
of  startled  hares  darted  that  cast  the  tiring  man 
into  foreboding.  Into  his  furtive  mind  crept  a  sus- 
picion that  he  was  being  trailed.  So  insidiously  had 
this  dread  birthed  that  at  first  it  was  simply  worry, 
a  feeling  as  if  the  tremendous  void  of  the  prairie 
was  closing  in  on  him,  that  now  and  then  a  white 
boulder  ahead  was  a  crouching  wolf.  He  shivered, 
shook  his  wide  shoulders  and  cifrsed.  It  was  that 
he  was  tiring,  perhaps. 

Then  suddenly  the  thing  took  form,  mental  form 
—something  was  on  his  trail.  This  primitive  crea- 
ture was  like  an  Indian — gifted  with  the  sixth  sense 
that  knows  when  somebody  is  coming  though  he  may 
be  a  day's  march  away;  the  mental  wireless  that 
animals  possess.  He  tried  to  laugh  it  off ;  to  dissi- 


31 

pate  the  unrest  with  blasphemy;  but  it  wouldn't 
down. 

The  prairie  was  like  a  huge  platter,  everything 
stood  out  against  the  luminous  evening  sky  like  he 
sails  of  a  ship  at  sea.  If  it  were  Heath  trailing,  and 
that  man  saw  him,  he  would  never  reach  the  rail- 
road. His  footprints  lay  along  the  trail,  for  it  was 
hard  going  on  the  heavily-grassed  turf.  To  cut 
across  the  muskeg  that  stretched  for  miles  would 
trap  him.  In  the  morning  light  the  Sergeant  would 
discover  that  his  tracks  had  disappeared,  and  would 
know  just  where  he  had  gone.  Being  mounted  the 
Sergeant  would  soon  make  up  for  the  few  hours  of 
darkness — would  reach  the  railway  and  wire  down 
the  line. 

The  Wolf  plodded  on  for  half  a  mile,  then  he  left 
the  trail  where  the  ground  was  rolling,  cut  east  for 
five  hundred  yards,  and  circled  back.  On  the  top  of 
a  cut-bank  that  was  fringed  with  wolf  willow  he 
crouched  to  watch.  The  sun  had  slipped  through 
purple  clouds,  and  dropping  below  them  into  a  sea 
of  greenish-yellow  space,  had  bathed  in  blood  the 
whole  mass  of  tesselated  vapour;  suddenly  outlined 
against  this  glorious  background  a  horse  and  man 
silhouetted,  the  stiff  erect  seat  in  the  saddle,  the 
docked  tail  of  the  horse,  square  cut  at  the  hocks,  told 
the  watcher  that  it  was  a  policeman. 

When  the  rider  had  passed  the  Wolf  trailed  him, 
keeping  east  of  the  road  where  his  visibility  was  low 
against  the  darkening  side  of  the  vast  dome.  Half 
a  mile  beyond  where  the  Wolf  had  turned,  the  Ser- 


32  BULLDOG  CARNEY 

geant  stopped,  dismounted,  and,  leading  the  horse, 
with  head  low  hung  searched  the  trail  for  the  tracks 
that  had  now  disappeared.  Approaching  night, 
creeping  first  over  the  prairie,  had  blurred  it  into  a 
gigantic  rug  of  sombre  hue.  The  trail  was  like  a 
softened  stripe;  footprints  might  be  there,  merged 
into  the  pattern  till  they  were  indiscernible. 

A  small  oval  lake  showed  in  the  edge  of  the 
muskeg  beside  the  trail,  its  sides  festooned  by  strong- 
growing  blue-joint,  wild  oats,  wolf  willow,  saskatoon 
bushes,  and  silver-leafed  poplar.  Ducks,  startled 
from  their  nests,  floating  nests  built  of  interwoven 
rush  leaves  and  grass,  rose  in  circling  flights,  utter- 
ing plaintive  rebukes.  Three  giant  sandhill  cranes 
flopped  their  sail-like  wings,  folded  their  long  spin- 
dle shanks  straight  out  behind,  and  soared  away  like 
kites. 

Crouched  back  beside  the  trail  the  Wolf  watched 
and  waited.  He  knew  what  the  Sergeant  would  do; 
having  lost  the  trail  of  his  quarry  he  would  camp 
there,  beside  good  water,  tether  his  horse  to  the 
picket-pin  by  the  hackamore  rope,  eat,  and  sleep  till 
daylight,  which  would  come  about  three  o'clock; 
then  he  would  cast  about  for  the  Wolf's  tracks,  gal- 
lop along  the  southern  trail,  and  when  he  did  not 
pick  them  up  would  surmise  that  Jack  had  cut  across 
the  muskeg  land ;  then  he  would  round  the  southern 
end  of  the  swamp  and  head  for  the  railway. 

"I  must  get  him,"  the  Wolf  muttered  mercilessly; 
"gentle  him  if  I  can,  if  not — get  him." 

He  saw  the  Sergeant  unsaddle  his  horse,  picket 


BULLDOG  CARNEtf  S3 

him,  and  eat  a  cold  meal;  this  rather  than  beacon  his 
presence  by  a  glimmering  fire. 

The  Wolf,  belly  to  earth,  wormed  closer,  slither- 
ing over  the  gillardias,  crunching  their  yellow  blooms 
beneath  his  evil  body,  his  revolver  held  between  his 
strong  teeth  as  his  grimy  paws  felt  the  ground  for 
twigs  that  might  crack. 

If  the  Sergeant  would  unbuckle  his  revolver  belt, 
and  perhaps  go  down  to  the  water  for  a  drink,  or 
even  to  the  horse  that  was  at  the  far  end  of  the 
picket  line,  his  nose  buried  deep  in  the  succulent 
wild-pea  vine,  then  the  Wolf  would  rush  his  man, 
and  the  Sergeant,  disarmed,  would  throw  up  his 
hands. 

The  Wolf  did  not  want  on  his  head  the  death  of 
a  Mounted  Policeman,  for  then  the  "Redcoats" 
would  trail  him  to  all  corners  of  the  earth.  All  his 
life  there  would  be  someone  on  his  trail.  It  was  too 
big  a  price.  Even  if  the  murder  thought  had  been 
paramount,  in  that  dim  light  the  first  shot  meant  not 
overmuch. 

So  Jack  waited.  Once  the  horse  threw  up  his 
head,  cocked  his  ears  fretfully,  and  stood  like  a 
bronze  statue;  then  he  blew  a  breath  of  discontent 
through  his  spread  nostrils,  and  again  buried  his 
muzzle  in  the  pea  vine  and  sweet-grass. 

Heath  had  seen  this  movement  of  the  horse  and 
ceased  cutting  at  the  plug  of  tobacco  with  which  he 
was  filling  his  pipe;  he  stood  up,  and  searched  with 
his  eyes  the  mysterious  gloomed  prairie. 

The  Wolf,  flat  to  earth,  scarce  breathed. 


34.  BULLDOG  CARNEY 

The  Sergeant  snuffed  out  the  match  hidden  in  his 
cupped  hands  over  the  bowl,  put  the  pipe  in  his 
pocket,  and,  revolver  in  hand,  walked  in  a  narrow 
circle;  slowly,  stealthily,  stopping  every  few  feet  to 
listen;  not  daring  to  go  too  far  lest  the  man  he  was 
after  might  be  hidden  somewhere  and  cut  out  his 
horse.  He  passed  within  ten  feet  of  where  the  Wolf 
lay,  just  a  gray  mound  against  the  gray  turf. 

The  Sergeant  went  back  to  his  blanket  and  with 
his  saddle  for  a  pillow  lay  down,  the  tiny  glow  of 
his  pipe  showing  the  Wolf  that  he  smoked.  He  had 
not  removed  his  pistol  belt. 

The  Wolf  lying  there  commenced  to  think  grimly 
how  easy  it  would  be  to  kill  the  policeman  as  he 
slept;  to  wiggle,  snake-like  to  within  a  few  feet  and 
then  the  shot.  But  killing  was  a  losing  game,  the 
blundering  trick  of  a  man  who  easily  lost  control; 
the  absolutely  last  resort  when  a  man  was  cornered 
beyond  escape  and  saw  a  long  term  at  Stony  Moun- 
tain ahead  of  him,  or  the  gallows.  The  Wolf  would 
wait  till  all  the  advantage  was  with  him.  Besides, 
the  horse  was  like  a  watch-dog.  The  Wolf  was 
down  wind  from  them  now,  but  if  he  moved  enough 
to  rouse  the  horse,  or  the  wind  shifted — no,  he  would 
wait.  In  the  morning  the  Sergeant,  less  wary  in  the 
daylight,  might  give  him  his  chance. 

Fortunately  it  was  late  in  the  summer  and  that 
terrible  pest,  the  mosquito,  had  run  his  course. 

The  Wolf  slipped  back  a  few  yards  deeper  into 
the  scrub,  and,  tired,  slept.  He  knew  that  at  the 
first  wash  of  gray  in  the  eastern  sky  the  ducks  would 


BULLDOG  CARNEY  35 

wake  him.  He  slept  like  an  animal,  scarce  slipping 
from  consciousness;  a  stamp  of  the  horse's  hoof  on 
the  sounding  turf  bringing  him  wide  awake.  Once  a 
gopher  raced  across  his  legs,  and  he  all  but  sprang 
to  his  feet  thinking  the  Sergeant  had  grappled  with 
him.  Again  a  great  horned  owl  at  a  twist  of  Jack's 
head  as  he  dreamed,  swooped  silently  and  struck, 
thinking  it  a  hare. 

Brought  out  of  his  sleep  by  the  myriad  noises  of 
the  waterfowl  the  Wolf  knew  that  night  was  past, 
and  the  dice  of  chance  were  about  to  be  thrown. 
He  crept  back  to  where  the  Sergeant  was  in  full 
view,  the  horse,  his  sides  ballooned  by  the  great  feed 
of  sweet-pea  vine,  lay  at  rest,  his  muzzle  on  the 
earth,  his  drooped  ears  showing  that  he  slept. 

Waked  by  the  harsh  cry  of  a  loon  that  swept  by 
rending  the  air  with  his  death-like  scream,  the  Ser- 
geant sat  bolt  upright  and  rubbed  his  eyes  sleepily. 
He  rose,  stretched  his  arms  above  his  head,  and 
stood  for  a  minute  looking  off  toward  the  eastern 
sky  that  was  now  taking  on  a  rose  tint.  The  horse, 
with  a  little  snort,  canted  to  his  feet  and  sniffed 
toward  the  water;  the  Sergeant  pulled  the  picket- 
pin  and  led  him  to  the  lake  for  a  drink. 

Hungrily  the  Wolf  looked  at  the  carbine  that  lay 
across  the  saddle,  but  the  Sergeant  watered  his  horse 
without  passing  behind  the  bushes.  It  was  a  chance; 
but  still  the  Wolf  waited,  thinking,  "I  want  an  ace 
in  the  hole  when  I  play  this  hand." 

Sergeant  Heath  slipped  the  picket-pin  back  into 
the  turf,  saddled  his  horse,  and  stood  mentally  de- 


36  BULLDOG  CARNEY 

bating  something.  Evidently  the  something  had  to 
do  with  Jack's  whereabouts,  for  Heath  next  climbed 
a  short  distance  up  a  poplar,  and  with  his  field 
glasses  scanned  the  surrounding  prairie.  This 
seemed  to  satisfy  him;  he  dropped  back  to  earth, 
gathered  some  dry  poplar  branches  and  built  a  little 
fire;  hanging  by  a  forked  stick  he  drove  in  the 
ground  his  copper  tea  pail  half  full  of  water. 

Then  the  thing  the  Wolf  had  half  expectantly 
waited  for  happened.  The  Sergeant  took  off  his 
revolver  belt,  his  khaki  coat,  rolled  up  the  sleeves 
of  his  gray  flannel  shirt,  turned  down  its  collar,  took 
a  piece  of  soap  and  a  towel  from  the  roll  of  his 
blanket  and  went  to  the  water  to  wash  away  the  black 
dust  of  the  prairie  trail  that  was  thick  and  heavy  on 
his  face  and  in  his  hair.  Eyes  and  ears  full  of  suds, 
splashing  and  blowing  water,  the  noise  of  the  Wolf* 
rapid  creep  to  the  fire  was  unheard. 

When  the  Sergeant,  leisurely  drying  his  face  on 
the  towel,  stood  up  and  turned  about  he  was  looking 
into  the  yawning  maw  of  his  own  heavy  police  re- 
volver, and  the  Wolf  was  saying:  "Come  here  be- 
side the  fire  and  strip  to  the  buff — I  want  them  duds. 
There  won't  nothin'  happen  you  unless  you  get  hos- 
tile, then  you'll  get  yours  too  damn  quick.  Just  do 
as  you're  told  and  don't  make  no  fool  play;  I'm  in 
a  hurry." 

Of  course  the  Sergeant,  not  being  an  imbecile, 
obeyed. 

"Now  get  up  in  that  tree  and  stay  there  while  I 
dress,"  the  Wolf  ordered.  In  three  minutes  he  was 


BULLDOG  CARNEY  37 

arrayed  in  the  habiliments  of  Sergeant  Heath;  then 
he  said,  "Come  down  and  put  on  my  shirt." 

In  the  pocket  of  the  khaki  coat  that  the  Wolf  now 
wore  were  a  pair  of  steel  handcuffs ;  he  tossed  them 
to  the  man  in  the  shirt  commanding,  "Click  these 
on." 

"I  say,"  the  Sergeant  expostulated,  "can't  I  have 
the  pants  and  the  coat  and  your  boots?" 

The  Wolf  sneered:  "Dif'rent  here  my  bounder; 
I  got  to  make  a  get-away.  I'll  tell  you  what  I'll  do 
— I'll  give  you  your  choice  of  three  ways :  I'll  stake 
you  to  the  clothes,  bind  and  gag  you ;  or  I'll  rip  one 
of  these  44  plugs  through  you;  or  I'll  let  you  run 
foot  loose  with  a  shirt  on  your  back;  I  reckon  you 
won't  go  far  on  this  wire  grass  in  bare  feet." 

"I  don't  walk  on  my  pants." 

"That's  just  what  you  would  do;  the  pants  and 
coat  would  cut  up  into  about  four  pairs  of  moc- 
casins ;  they'd  be  as  good  as  duffel  cloth." 

"I'll  starve." 

"That's  your  look-out.  You'd  lie  awake  nights 
worrying  about  where  Jack  Wolf  would  get  a  din- 
ner— I  guess  not.  I  ought  to  shoot  you.  The  damn 
police  are  nothin'  but  a  lot  of  dirty  dogs  anyway. 
Get  busy  and  cook  grub  for  two — bacon  and  tea, 
while  I  sit  here  holdin'  this  gun  on  you." 

The  Sergeant  was  a  grotesque  figure  cooking  with 
the  manacles  on  his  wrists,  and  clad  only  in  a  shirt. 

When  they  had  eaten  the  Wolf  bridled  the  horse, 
curled  up  the  picket  line  and  tied  it  to  the  saddle 


38  BULLDOG  CARNEY 

horn,  rolled  the  blanket  and  with  the  carbine 
strapped  it  to  the  saddle,  also  his  own  blanket. 

"I'm  goin'  to  grubstake  you,"  he  said,  "leave  you 
rations  for  three  days;  that's  more  than  you'd  do 
for  me.  I'll  turn  your  horse  loose  near  steel,  I  ain't 
horse  stealin',  myself — I'm  only  borrowin'." 

When  he  was  ready  to  mount  a  thought  struck  the 
Wolf.  It  could  hardly  be  pity  for  the  forlorn  con- 
dition of  Heath ;  it  must  have  been  cunning — a  play 
against  the  off  chance  of  the  Sergeant  being  picked 
up  by  somebody  that  day.  He  said: 

"You  fellers  in  the  force  pull  a  gag  that  you  keep 
your  word,  don't  you?" 

"We  try  to." 

"I'll  give  you  another  chance,  then.  I  don't  want 
to  see  nobody  put  in  a  hole  when  there  ain't  no  call 
for  it.  If  you  give  me  your  word,  on  the  honor  of 
a  Mounted  Policeman,  swear  it,  that  you'll  give  me 
four  days'  start  before  you  squeal  I'll  stake  you  to 
the  clothes  and  boots;  then  you  can  get  out  in  two 
days  and  be  none  the  worse." 

"I'll  see  you  in  hell  first.  A  Mounted  Policeman 
doesn't  compromise  with  a  horse  thief — with  a 
skunk  who  steals  a  working  girl's  money." 

"You'll  keep  palaverin'  till  I  blow  the  top  of  your 
head  off,"  the  Wolf  snarled.  "You'll  look  sweet 
trampin'  in  to  some  town  in  about  a  week  askin' 
somebody  to  file  off  the  handcuffs  Jack  the  Wolf 
snapped  on  you,  won't  you?" 

"I  won't  get  any  place  in  a  week  with  these  hand- 


BULLDOG  CARNEY  39 

cuffs  on,"  the  Sergeant  objected;  "even  if  a  pack  of 
coyotes  tackled  me  I  couldn't  protect  myself." 

The  Wolf  pondered  this.  If  he  could  get  away 
without  it  he  didn't  want  the  death  of  a  man  on  his 
hands — there  was  nothing  in  it.  So  he  unlocked  the 
handcuffs,  dangled  them  in  his  fingers  debatingly, 
and  then  threw  them  far  out  into  the  bushes,  say- 
ing, with  a  leer;  "I  might  get  stuck  up  by  some- 
body, and4f  they  clamped  these  on  to  me  it  would 
make  a  get-away  harder." 

"Give  me  some  matches,"  pleaded  the  Sergeant. 

With  this  request  the  Wolf  complied  saying,  "I 
don't  want  to  do  nothin*  mean  unless  it  helps  me  out 
of  a  hole." 

Then  Jack  swung  to  the  saddle  and  continued  on 
the  trail.  For  four  miles  he  rode,  wondering  at  the 
persistence  of  the  muskeg.  But  now  he  had  a  horse 
and  twenty-four  hours  ahead  before  train  time;  he 
should  worry. 

Another  four  miles,  and  to  the  south  he  could 
see  a  line  of  low  rolling  hills  that  meant  the  end  of 
the  swamps.  Even  where  he  rode  the  prairie  rose 
and  fell,  the  trail  dipping  into  hollows,  on  its  rise 
to  sweep  over  higher  land.  Perhaps  some  of  these 
ridges  ran  right  through  the  muskegs ;  but  there  was 
no  hurry. 

Suddenly  as  the  Wolf  breasted  an  upland  he  saw 
a  man  leisurely  cinching  a  saddle  on  a  buckskin 
horse. 

"Hell !"  the  Wolf  growled  as  he  swung  his  mount; 


40  BULLDOG  CARNEY 

"that's  the  buckskin  that  I  see  at  the  Alberta;  that's 
Bulldog;  I  don't  want  no  mix-up  with  him." 

He  clattered  down  to  the  hollow  he  had  left,  and 
raced  for  the  hiding  screen  of  the  bushed  muskeg. 
He  was  almost  certain  Carney  had  not  seen  him, 
for  the  other  had  given  no  sign;  he  would  wait  in 
the  cover  until  Carney  had  gone;  perhaps  he  could 
keep  right  on  across  the  bad  lands,  for  his  horse,  as 
yet,  sunk  but  hoof  deep.  He  drew  rein  in  thick 
cover  and  waited. 

Suddenly  the  horse  threw  up  his  head,  curved  his 
neck  backward,  cocked  his  ears  and  whinnied.  The 
Wolf  could  hear  a  splashing,  sucking  sound  of  hoofs 
back  on  the  tell-tale  trail  he  had  left. 

With  a  curse  he  drove  his  spurs  into  the  horse's 
flanks,  and  the  startled  animal  sprang  from  the  cut- 
ting rowels,  the  ooze  throwing  up  in  a  shower. 

A  dozen  yards  and  the  horse  stumbled,  almost 
coming  to  his  knees;  he  recovered  at  the  lash  of 
Jack's  quirt,  and  struggled  on;  now  going  half  the 
depth  of  his  cannon  bones  in  the  yielding  muck,  he 
was  floundering  like  a  drunken  man ;  in  ten  feet  his 
legs  went  to  the  knees. 

Quirt  and  spur  drove  him  a  few  feet;  then  he 
lurched  heavily,  and  with  a  writhing  struggle  against 
the  sucking  sands  stood  trembling;  from  his  spread 
mouth  came  a  scream  of  terror — he  knew. 

And  now  the  Wolf  knew.  With  terrifying  dread 
he  remembered — he  had  ridden  into  the  "Lakes  of 
the  Shifting  Sands."  This  was  the  country  they 
were  in  and  he  had  forgotten.  The  sweat  of  fear 


BULLDOG  CARNEY  41 

stood  out  on  the  low  forehead;  all  the  tales  that  he 
had  heard  of  men  who  had  disappeared  from  off 
the  face  of  the  earth,  swallowed  up  in  these  quick- 
sands, came  back  to  him  with  numbing  force.  To 
spring  from  the  horse  meant  but  two  or  three  wal- 
lowing strides  and  then  to  be  sucked  down  in  the 
claiming  quicksands. 

The  horse's  belly  was  against  the  black  muck. 
The  Wolf  had  drawn  his  feet  up;  he  gave  a  cry  for 
help.  A  voice  answered,  and  twisting  his  head 
about  he  saw,  twenty  yards  away,  Carney  on  the 
buckskin.  About  the  man's  thin  lips  a  smile  hovered. 
He  sneered: 

"You're  up  against  it,  Mister  Policeman;  what 
name'll  I  turn  in  back  at  barracks?" 

Jack  knew  that  it  was  Carney,  and  that  Carney 
might  know  Heath  by  sight,  so  he  lied : 

"I'm  Sergeant  Phillips;  for  God's  sake  help  me 
out." 

Bulldog  sneered.  "Why  should  I — God  doesn't 
love  a  sneaking  police  hound." 

The  Wolf  pleaded,  for  his  horse  was  gradually 
sinking;  his  struggles  now  stilled  for  the  beast  knew 
that  he  was  doomed. 

"All  right,"  Carney  said  suddenly.  "One  condi- 
tion— never  mind,  I'll  save  you  first — there  isn't  too 
much  time.  Now  break  your  gun,  empty  the  cart- 
ridges out  and  drop  it  back  into  the  holster,"  he 
commanded.  "Unsling  your  picket  line,  fasten  it 
under  your  armpits,  and  if  I  can  get  my  cow-rope  to 
you  tie  the  two  together." 


42  BULLDOG  CARNF.Y 

He  slipped  from  the  saddle  and  led  the  horse  as 
far  out  as  he  dared,  seemingly  having  found  firmer 
ground  a  little  to  one  side.  Then  taking  his  cow- 
rope,  he  worked  his  way  still  farther  out,  placing 
his  feet  on  the  tufted  grass  that  stuck  up  in  little 
mounds  through  the  treacherous  ooze.  Then  call- 
ing, "Look  out!"  he  swung  the  rope.  The  Wolf 
caught  it  at  the  first  throw  and  tied  his  own  to  it. 
Carney  worked  his  way  back,  looped  the  rope  over 
the  horn,  swung  to  the  saddle,  and  calling,  "Flop 
over  on  your  belly — look  out!"  he  started  his  horse, 
veritably  towing  the  Wolf  to  safe  ground. 

The  rope  slacked;  the  Wolf,  though  half  smoth- 
ered v/ith  muck,  drew  his  revolver  and  tried  to  slip 
two  cartridges  into  the  cylinder. 

A  sharp  voice  cried,  "Stop  that,  you  swine!"  and 
raising  his  eyes  he  was  gazing  into  Carney's  gun. 
"Come  up  here  on  the  dry  ground,"  the  latter  com- 
manded. "Stand  there,  unbuckle  your  belt  and  let 
it  drop.  Now  take  ten  paces  straight  ahead."  Car- 
ney salvaged  the  weapon  and  belt  of  cartridges. 

"Build  a  fire,  quick!"  he  next  ordered,  leaning 
casually  against  his  horse,  one  hand  resting  on  the 
butt  of  his  revolver. 

He  tossed  a  couple  of  dry  matches  to  the  Wolf 
when  the  latter  had  built  a  little  mound  of  dry  pop- 
]ar  twigs  and  birch  bark. 

When  the  fire  was  going  Carney  said:  "Peel 
your  coat  and  dry  it;  stand  close  to  the  fire  so  your 
pants  dry  too — I  want  that  suit." 

The  Wolf  was  startled.    Was  retribution  so  hot 


BULLDOG  CARNEY  43 

on  his  trail?  Was  Carney  about  to  set  him  afoot 
just  as  he  had  set  afoot  Sergeant  Heath?  His  two 
hundred  dollars  and  Lucy  Black's  five  hundred  were 
in  the  pocket  of  that  coat  also.  As  he  took  it  off  he 
turned  it  upside  down,  hoping  for  a  chance  to  slip 
the  parcel  of  money  to  the  ground  unnoticed  of  his 
captor. 

"Throw  the  jacket  here,"  Carney  commanded; 
"seems  to  be  papers  in  the  pocket." 

When  the  coat  had  been  tossed  to  him,  Carney 
sat  down  on  a  fallen  tree,  took  from  it  two  packets 
— one  of  papers,  and  another  wrapped  in  strong 
paper.  He  opened  the  papers,  reading  them  with 
one  eye  while  with  the  other  he  watched  the  man  by 
the  fire.  Presently  he  sneered:  "Say,  you're  some 
liar — even  for  a  government  hound;  your  name's 
not  Phillips,  it's  Heath.  You're  the  waster  who 
fooled  the  little  girl  at  Golden.  You're  the  bounder 
who  came  down  from  the  Klondike  to  gather  Bull- 
dog Carney  in;  you  shot  off  your  mouth  all  along 
the  line  that  you  were  going  to  take  him  single- 
handed.  You  bet  a  man  in  Edmonton  a  hundred 
you'd  tie  him  hoof  and  horn.  Well,  you  lose,  for 
I'm  going  to  rope  you  first,  see?  Turn  you  over 
to  the  Government  tied  up  like  a  bag  of  spuds ;  that's 
just  what  I'm  going  to  do,  Sergeant  Liar.  I'm  going 
to  break  you  for  the  sake  of  that  little  girl  at  Golden, 
for  she  was  my  friend  and  I'm  Bulldog  Carney. 
Soon  as  that  suit  is  dried  a  bit  you'll  strip  and  pass 
it  over;  then  you'll  get  into  my  togs  and  I'm  going 
to  turn  you  over  to  the  police  as  Bulldog  Carney. 


'44  BULLDOG  CARNEY 

D'you  get  me,  kid?"  Carney  chuckled.  "That'll 
break  you,  won't  it,  Mister  Sergeant  Heath?  You 
can't  stay  in  the  Force  a  joke;  you'll  never  live  it 
down  if  you  live  to  be  a  thousand — you've  boasted 
too  much." 

The  Wolf  had  remained  silent — waiting.  He 
had  an  advantage  if  his  captor  did  not  know  him. 
Now  he  was  frightened;  to  be  turned  in  at  Edmon- 
ton by  Carney  was  as  bad  as  being  taken  by  Ser- 
geant Heath. 

"You  can't  pull  that  stuff,  Carney,"  he  objected; 
"the  minute  I  tell  them  who  I  am  and  who  you 
are  they'll  grab  you  too  quick.  They'll  know  me; 
perhaps  some  of  them'll  know  you." 

A  sneering  "Ha!"  came  from  between  the  thin 
lips  of  the  man  on  the  log.  "Not  where  we're  going 
they  won't,  Sergeant.  I  know  a  little  place  over  on 
the  rail" — and  he  jerked  his  thumb  toward  the  west 
— "where  there's  two  policemen  that  don't  know 
much  of  anything;  they've  never  seen  either  of  us. 
You  ain't  been  at  Edmonton  more'n  a  couple  of 
months  since  you  came  from  the  Klondike.  But 
they  do  know  that  Bulldog  Carney  is  wanted  at 
Calgary  and  that  there's  a  thousand  dollars  to  the 
man  that  brings  him  in." 

At  this  the  Wolf  pricked  his  ears ;  he  saw  light — 
a  flood  of  it.  If  this  thing  went  through,  and  he 
was  sent  on  to  Calgary  as  Bulldog  Carney,  he  would 
be  turned  loose  at  once  as  not  being  the  man.  The 
police  at  Calgary  had  cause  to  know  just  what  Car- 


BULLDOG  CARNEY  45 

ney  looked  like  for  he  had  been  in  their  clutches  and 
escaped. 

But  Jack  must  bluff — appear  to  be  the  angry  Ser- 
geant. So  he  said:  "They'll  know  me  at  Calgary, 
and  you'll  get  hell  for  this." 

Now  Carney  laughed  out  joyously.  "I  don't  give 
a  damn  if  they  do.  Can't  you  get  it  through  your 
wooden  police  head  that  I  just  want  this  little  pleas- 
antry driven  home  so  that  you're  the  goat  of  that 
nanny  band,  the  Mounted  Police;  then  you'll  send 
in  your  papers  and  go  back  to  the  farm?" 

As  Carney  talked  he  had  opened  the  paper  packet. 
Now  he  gave  a  crisp  "Hello!  what  have  we  here?" 
as  a  sheaf  of  bills  appeared. 

The  Wolf  had  been  watching  for  Carney's  eyes 
to  leave  him  for  five  seconds.  One  hand  rested  in 
his  trousers  pocket.  He  drew  it  out  and  dropped  a 
knife,  treading  it  into  the  sand  and  ashes. 

"Seven  hundred,"  Bulldog  continued.  "Rather  a 
tidy  sum  for  a  policeman  to  be  toting.  Is  this  police 
money?" 

The  Wolf  hesitated;  it  was  a  delicate  situation. 
Jack  wanted  that  money  but  a  slip  might  ruin  his 
escape.  If  Bulldog  suspected  that  Jack  was  not  a 
policeman  he  would  jump  to  the  conclusion  that  he 
had  killed  the  owner  of  the  horse  and  clothes.  Also 
Carney  would  not  believe  that  a  policeman  on  duty 
wandered  about  with  seven  hundred  in  his  pocket; 
if  Jack  claimed  it  all  Carney  would  say  he  lied  and 
keep  it  as  Government  money. 

"Five    hundred    is    Government   money    I    was 


46  BULLDOG  CARNEY 

bringin'  in  from  a  post,  and  two  hundred  is  my 
own,"  he  answered. 

"I'll  keep  the  Government  money,"  Bulldog  said 
crisply;  "the  Government  robbed  me  of  my  ranch — 
said  I  had  no  title.  And  I'll  keep  yours,  too;  it's 
coming  to  you." 

"If  luck  strings  with  you,  Carney,  and  you  get 
away  with  this  dirty  trick,  what  you  say'll  make 
good — I'll  have  to  quit  the  Force ;  an'  I  want  to  get 
home  down  east.  Give  me  a  chance;  let  me  have 
my  own  two  hundred." 

"I  think  you're  lying — a  man  in  the  Force  doesn't 
get  two  hundred  ahead,  not  honest.  But  I'll  toss 
you  whether  I  give  you  one  hundred  or  two,"  Car- 
ney said,  taking  a  half  dollar  from  his  pocket, 
"Call !"  and  he  spun  it  in  the  air. 

"Heads!"  the  Wolf  cried. 

The  coin  fell  tails  up.  "Here's  your  hundred," 
and  Bulldog  passed  the  bills  to  their  owner. 

"I  see  here,"  he  continued,  "your  order  to  arrest 
Bulldog  Carney.  Well,  you've  made  good,  haven't 
you.  And  here's  another  for  Jack  the  Wolf;  you 
missed  him,  didn't  you?  Where's  he — what's  he 
done  lately  ?  He  played  me  a  dirty  trick  once ;  tipped 
off  the  police  as  to  where  they'd  get  me.  I  never 
saw  him,  but  if  you  could  stake  me  to  a  sight  of  the 
Wolf  I'd  give  you  this  six  hundred.  He's  the  real 
hound  that  I've  got  a  low  down  grudge  against. 
What's  his  description — what  does  he  look  like?" 

"He's  a  tall  slim  chap — looks  like  a  breed,  'cause 
he's  got  nigger  blood  in  him,"  the  Wolf  lied. 


BULLDOG  CARNEY  47 

"I'll  get  him  some  day,"  Carney  said;  "and  now 
them  duds  are  about  cooked — peel!" 

The  Wolf  stripped,  gray  shirt  and  all. 

"Now  step  back  fifteen  paces  while  I  make  my 
toilet,"  Carney  commanded,  toying  with  his  6-gun 
in  the  way  of  emphasis. 

In  two  minutes  he  was  transformed  into  Sergeant 
Heath  of  the  N.  W.  M.  P.,  revolver  belt  and  all. 
He  threw  his  own  clothes  to  the  Wolf,  and  lighted 
his  pipe. 

When  Jack  had  dressed  Carney  said:  "I  saved 
your  life,  so  I  don't  want  you  to  make  me  throw  it 
away  again.  I  don't  want  a  muss  when  I  turn  you 
over  to  the  police  in  the  morning.  There  ain't  much 
chance  they'd  listen  to  you  if  you  put  up  a  holler 
that  you  were  Sergeant  Heath — they'd  laugh  at  you, 
but  if  they  did  make  a  break  at  me  there's  be  shoot- 
ing, and  you'd  sure  be  plumb  in  line  of  a  careless 
bullet — see?  I'm  going  to  stay  close  to  you  till 
you're  on  that  train." 

Of  course  this  was  just  what  the  Wolf  wanted; 
to  go  down  the  line  as  Bulldog  Carney,  handcuffed 
to  a  policeman,  would  be  like  a  passport  for  Jack 
the  Wolf.  Nobody  would  even  speak  to  him — the 
policeman  would  see  to  that. 

"You're  dead  set  on  putting  this  crazy  thing 
through,  are  you?"  he  asked. 

"You  bet  I  am — I'd  rather  work  this  racket  than 
go  to  my  own  wedding." 

"Well,  so's  you  won't  think  your  damn  threat  to 
shoot  keep*;  me  mum,  I'll  just  tell  you  that  if  you  get 


48  BULLDOG  CARNEY 

that  far  with  it  I  ain't  going  to  give  myself  away. 
You've  called  the  turn,  Carney;  I'd  be  a  joke  even 
if  I  only  got  as  far  as  the  first  barracks  a  prisoner. 
If  I  go  in  as  Bulldog  Carney  I  won't  come  out  as 
Sergeant  Heath — I'll  disappear  as  Mister  Some- 
body. I'm  sick  of  the  Force  anyway.  They'll  never 
know  what  happened  Sergeant  Heath  from  me — 
I  couldn't  stand  the  guying.  But  if  I  ever  stack  up 
against  you,  Carney,  I'll  kill  you  for  it."  This  last 
was  pure  bluff — for  fear  Carney's  suspicions  might 
be  aroused  by  the  other's  ready  compliance. 

Carney  scowled;  then  he  laughed,  sneering:  "I've 
heard  women  talk  like  that  in  the  dance  halls.  You 
cook  some  bacon  and  tea  at  that  fire — then  we'll  pull 
out." 

As  the  Wolf  knelt  beside  the  fire  to  blow  the 
embers  into  a  blaze  he  found  a  chance  to  slip  the 
knife  he  had  buried  into  his  pocket. 

When  they  had  eaten  they  took  the  trail,  head- 
ing south  to  pass  the  lower  end  of  the  great  muskegs. 
Carney  rode  the  buckskin,  and  the  Wolf  strode  along 
in  front,  his  mind  possessed  of  elation  at  the  pros- 
pect of  being  helped  out  of  the  country,  and  depres- 
sion over  the  loss  of  his  money.  Curiously  the  loss 
of  his  own  one  hundred  seemed  a  greater  enormity 
than  that  of  the  school  teacher's  five  hundred.  That 
money  had  been  easily  come  by,  but  he  had  toiled 
a  month  for  the  hundred.  What  right  had  Carney 
to  steal  his  labor — to  rob  a  workman.  As  they 
plugged  along  mile  after  mile,  a  fierce  determina- 
tion to  get  the  money  back  took  possession  of  Jack. 


BULLDOG  CARNEY  49 

If  he  could  get  it  he  could  get  the  horse.  He  would 
fix  Bulldog  some  way  so  that  the  latter  would  not 
stop  him.  He  must  have  the  clothes,  too.  The 
khaki  suit  obsessed  him ;  it  was  a  red  flag  to  his  hot 
mind. 

They  spelled  and  ate  in  the  early  evening;  and 
when  they  started  for  another  hour's  tramp  Carney 
tied  his  cow-rope  tightly  about  the  Wolf's  waist, 
saying:  "If  you'd  tried  to  cut  out  in  these  gloomy 
hills  I'd  be  peeved.  Just  keep  that  line  taut  in  front 
of  the  buckskin  and  there  won't  be  no  argument." 

In  an  hour  Carney  called  a  halt,  saying:  "We'll 
camp  by  this  bit  of  water,  and  hit  the  trail  in  the 
early  morning.  We  ain't  more  than  ten  miles  from 
steel,  and  we'll  make  some  place  before  train  time." 

Carney  had  both  the  police  picket  line  and  his 
own.  He  drove  a  picket  in  the  ground,  looped  the 
line  that  was  about  the  Wolfs  waist  over  it,  and 
said. 

"I  don't  want  to  be  suspicious  of  a  mate  jumping 
me  in  the  dark,  so  I'll  sleep  across  this  line  and 
you'll  keep  to  the  other  end  of  it;  if  you  so  much  as 
wink  at  it  I  guess  I'll  wake.  I've  ^ot  a  bad  con- 
science and  sleep  light.  We'll  build  a  fire  and  you'll 
keep  to  the  other  side  of  it  same's  we  were  neigh- 
bors in  a  city  and  didn't  know  each  other." 

Twice,  as  they  ate,  Carney  caught  a  sullen,  vicious 
look  in  Jack's  eyes.  It  was  as  clearly  a  murder  look 
as  he  had  ever  seen;  and  more  than  once  he  had 
faced  eyes  that  thirsted  for  his  life.  He  wondered 
at  the  psychology  of  it;  it  was  not  like  his  idea  of 


50  BULLDOG  CARNEY 

Sergeant  Heath.  From  what  he  had  been  told  of 
that  policeman  he  had  fancied  him  a  vain,  swagger- 
ing chap  who  had  had  his  ego  fattened  by  the  three 
stripes  on  his  arm.  He  determined  to  take  a  few 
extra  precautions,  for  he  did  not  wish  to  lie  awake. 

''We'll  turn  in,"  he  said  when  they  had  eaten; 
"I'll  hobble  you,  same's  a  shy  cayuse,  for  fear  you'd 
walk  in  your  sleep,  Sergeant." 

He  bound  the  Wolf's  ankles,  and  tied  his  wrists 
behind  his  back,  saying,  as  he  knotted  the  rope, 
"What  the  devil  did  you  do  with  your  handcuffs — 
thought  you  johnnies  always  had  a  pair  in  your 
pocket?" 

"They  were  in  the  saddle  holster  and  went  down 
with  my  horse,"  the  Wolf  lied. 

Carney's  nerves  were  of  steel,  his  brain  worked 
with  exquisite  precision.  When  it  told  him  there 
was  nothing  to  fear,  that  his  precautions  had  made 
all  things  safe,  his  mind  rested,  untortured  by  jerky 
nerves ;  so  in  five  minutes  he  slept. 

The  Wolf  mastered  his  weariness  and  lay  awake, 
waiting  to  carry  out  the  something  that  had  been  in 
his  mind.  Six  Hundred  dollars  was  a  stake  to  play 
for;  also  clad  once  again  in  the  police  suit,  with  the 
buckskin  to  carry  him  to  the  railroad,  he  could  get 
away;  money  was  always  a  good  thing  to  bribe  his 
way  through.  Never  once  had  he  pa*  his  hand  in 
the  pocket  where  lay  the  knife  he  had  secreted  at 
the  time  he  had  changed  clothes  with  Carney,  as  he 
trailed  hour  after  hour  in  front  of  the  buckskin.  He 
knew  that  Carney  was  just  the  cool-nerved  man  that 


BULLDOG  CARNEY  51 

would  sleep — not  lie  awake  through  fear  over 
nothing. 

In  the  way  of  test  he  shuffled  his  feet  and  drew 
from  the  half-dried  grass  a  rasping  sound.  It  partly 
disturbed  the  sleeper;  he  changed  the  steady  rhythm 
of  his  breathing;  he  even  drew  a  heavy-sighing 
breath ;  had  he  been  lying  awake  watching  the  Wolf 
he  would  have  stilled  his  breathing  to  listen. 

The  Wolf  waited  until  the  rhythmic  breaths  of 
the  sleeper  told  that  he  had  lapsed  again  into  the 
deeper  sleep.  Slowly,  silently  the  Wolf  worked  his 
hands  to  the  side  pocket,  drew  out  the  knife  and  cut 
the  cords  that  bound  his  wrists.  It  took  time,  for 
he  worked  with  caution.  Then  he  waited.  The 
buckskin,  his  nose  deep  in  the  grass,  blew  the  pollen 
of  the  flowered  carpet  from  his  nostrils. 

Carney  stirred  and  raised  his  head.  The  buck- 
skin blew  through  his  nostrils  again,  ending  with  a 
luxurious  sigh  of  content;  then  was  heard  the  clip- 
clip  of  his  strong  teeth  scything  the  grass.  Carney, 
recognizing  what  had  waked  him,  turned  over  and 
slept  again. 

Ten  minutes,  and  the  Wolf,  drawing  up  his  feet 
slowly,  silently,  sawejd  through  the  rope  on  his 
ankles.  Then  with  spread  fingers  he  searched  the 
grass  for  a  stone  the  size  of  a  goose  egg,  beside 
which  he  had  purposely  lain  down.  When  his  fin- 
gers touched  it  he  unknotted  the  handkerchief  that 
had  been  part  of  Carney's  make-up  and  which  was 
now  about  his  neck,  and  in  one  corner  tied  the  stone, 
"'astening  the  other  end  about  his  wrist.  Now  he 


52  BULLDOG  CARNEY 

had  a  slung-shot  that  with  one  blow  would  render 
the  other  man  helpless. 

Then  he  commenced  his  crawl. 

A  pale,  watery,  three-quarter  moon  had  climbed 
listlessly  up  the  eastern  sky  changing  the  sombre 
prairie  into  a  vast  spirit  land,  draping  with  ghostly 
garments  bush  and  shrub. 

Purposely  Carney  had  tethered  the  buckskin  down 
wind  from  where  he  and  the  Wolf  lay.  Jack  had 
not  read  anything  out  of  this  action,  but  Carney 
knew  the  sensitive  wariness  of  his  horse, — the  scent 
of  the  stranger  in  his  nostrils  would  keep  him  rest- 
less, and  any  unusual  move  on  the  part  of  the  pris- 
oner would  agitate  the  buckskin.  Also  he  had  only 
pretended  to  drive  the  picket  pin  at  some  distance 
away;  in  the  dark  he  had  trailed  it  back  and  worked 
it  into  the  loose  soil  at  his  very  feet.  This  was 
more  a  move  of  habitual  sare  than  a  belief  that  the 
bound  man  could  work  his  way,  creeping  and  rolling, 
to  the  picket-pin,  pull  it,  and  get  away  with  the 
horse. 

At  the  Wolf's  first  move  the  buckskin  threw  up 
his  head,  and,  with  ears  cocked  forward,  studied 
the  shifting  blurred  shadow.  Perhaps  it  was  the 
scent  of  his  master's  clothes  which  the  Wolf  wore 
that  agitated  his  mind,  that  casf  him  to  wondering 
whether  his  master  was  moving  about;  or,  perhaps 
as  animals  instinctively  have  a  nervous  dread  of  a 
vicious  man  he  distrusted  the  stranger;  perhaps,  in 
the  dim  uncertain  light,  his  prairie  dread  came  back 
to  him  and  he  thought  it  a  wolf  that  had  crep*  into 


BULLDOG  CARNEY  53 

camp.  He  took  a  step  forward;  then  another,  shak- 
ing his  head  irritably.  A  vibration  trembled  along 
the  picket  line  that  now  lay  across  Carney's  foot  and 
he  stirred  restlessly. 

The  Wolf  flattened  himself  to  earth  and  snored. 
Five  minutes  he  waited,  cursing  softly  the  restless 
horse.  Then  again  he  moved,  so  slowly  that  even 
the  watchful  animal  scarce  detected  it. 

He  was  debating  two  plans:  a  swift  rush  and  a 
swing  of  his  slung  shot,  or  the  silent  approach.  The 
former  meant  inevitably  the  death  of  one  or  the 
other — the  crushed  skull  of  Carney,  or,  if  the  latter 
were  by  any  chance  awake,  a  bullet  through  the 
Wolf.  He  could  feel  his  heart  pounding  against  the 
turf  as  he  scraped  along,  inch  by  inch.  A  bare  ten 
feet,  and  he  could  put  his  hand  on  the  butt  of  Car- 
ney's gun  and  snatch  it  from  the  holster;  if  he 
missed,  then  the  slung  shot. 

The  horse,  roused,  was  growing  more  restless, 
more  inquisitive.  Sometimes  he  took  an  impatient 
snap  at  the  grass  with  his  teeth;  but  only  to  throw 
his  head  up  again,  take  a  step  forward,  shake  his 
head,  and  exhale  a  whistling  breath. 

Now  the  Wolf  had  squirmed  his  body  five  feet 
forward.  Another  yard  and  he  could  reach  the 
pistol;  and  there  was  no  sign  that  Carney  had 
wakened — just  the  steady  breathing  of  a  sleeping 
man. 

The  Wolf  lay  perfectly  still  for  ten  seconds,  for 
the  buckskin  seemingly  had  quieted;  he  was  stand- 
ing, his  head  low  hung,  as  if  he  slept  on  his  feet. 


54  BULLDOG  CARNEY 

Carney's  face  was  toward  the  creeping  man  and  was 
in  shadow.  Another  yard,  and  now  slowly  the  Wolf 
gathered  his  legs  under  him  till  he  rested  like  a 
sprinter  ready  for  a  spring;  his  left  hand  crept  for- 
ward toward  the  pistol  stock  that  was  within  reach; 
the  stone-laden  handkerchief  was  twisted  about  the 
two  first  fingers  of  his  right. 

Yes,  Carney  slept. 

As  the  Wolf's  finger  tips  slid  along  the  pistol  butt 
the  wrist  was  seized  in  fingers  of  steel,  he  was  twisted 
almost  face  to  earth,  and  the  butt  of  Carney's  own 
gun,  in  the  latter's  right  hand,  clipped  him  over  the 
eye  and  he  slipped  into  dreamland.  When  he  came 
to  workmen  were  riveting  a  boiler  in  the  top  of  his 
head;  somebody  with  an  augur  was  boring  a  hole  in 
his  forehead;  he  had  been  asleep  for  ages  and  had 
wakened  in  a  strange  land.  He  sat  up  groggily  and 
stared  vacantly  at  a  man  who  sat  beside  a  camp  fire 
smoking  a  pipe.  Over  the  camp  fire  a  copper  kettle 
hung  and  a  scent  of  broiling  bacon  came  to  his  nos- 
trils. The  man  beside  the  fire  took  the  pipe  from  his 
mouth  and  said:  "I  hoped  I  had  cracked  your  skull, 
you  swine.  Where  did  you  pick  up  that  thug  trick 
of  a  stone  in  the  handkerchief?  As  you  are  troubled 
with  insomnia  we'll  hit  the  trail  again." 

With  the  picket  line  around  his  waist  once  more 
Jack  trudged  ahead  of  the  buckskin,  in  the  night 
gloom  the  shadowy  cavalcade  cutting  a  strange, 
weird  figure  as  though  a  boat  were  being  towed 
across  sleeping  waters. 

The  Wolf,  groggy  from  the  blow  that  had  almost 


BULLDOG  CARNEY  55 

cracked  his  skull,  was  wobbly  on  his  legs — his  feet 
were  heavy  as  though  he  wore  a  diver's  leaden  boots. 
As  he  waded  through  a  patch  of  wild  rose  the  briars 
clung  to  his  legs,  and,  half  dazed  he  cried  out,  think- 
ing he  struggled  in  the  shifting  sands. 

"Shut  up!"  The  words  clipped  from  the  thin  lips 
of  the  rider  behind. 

They  dipped  into  a  hollow  and  the  played-out  man 
went  half  to  his  knees  in  the  morass.  A  few  lurch- 
ing steps  and  overstrained  nature  broke;  he  collapsed 
like  a  jointed  doll — he  toppled  head  first  into  the 
mire  and  lay  there. 

The  buckskin  plunged  forward  in  the  treacherous 
going,  and  the  bag  of  a  man  was  skidded  to  firm 
ground  by  the  picket  line,  where  he  sat  wiping  the 
mud  from  his  face,  and  looking  very  all  in. 

Carney  slipped  to  the  ground  and  stood  beside 
his  captive.  "You're  soft,  my  bucko — I  knew  Ser- 
geant Heath  had  a  yellow  streak,"  he  sneered; 
"boasters  generally  have.  I  guess  we'll  rest  till 
daylight.  I've  a  way  of  hobbling  a  bad  man  that'll 
hold  you  this  time,  I  fancy." 

He  drove  the  picket-pin  of  the  rope  that  tethered 
the  buckskin,  and  ten  feet  away  he  drove  the  other 
picket  pin.  He  made  the  Wolf  lie  on  his  side  and 
fastened  him  by  a  wrist  to  each  peg  so  that  one  arm 
was  behind  and  one  in  front. 

Carney  chuckled  as  he  surveyed  the  spread-eagle 
man :  "You'll  find  some  trouble  getting  out  of  that, 
bucko;  you  can't  get  your  hands  together  and 


56  BULLDOG  CARNEY 

you  can't  get  your  teeth  at  either  rope.  Now  I  will 
have  a  sleep." 

The  Wolf  was  in  a  state  of  half  coma;  even  un- 
tethered  he  probably  would  have  slept  like  a  log; 
and  Carney  was  tired;  he,  too,  slumbered,  the  soft 
stealing  gray  of  the  early  morning  not  bringing  him 
back  out  of  the  valley  of  rest  till  a  glint  of  sunlight 
throwing  over  the  prairie  grass  touched  his  eyes, 
and  the  warmth  gradually  pushed  the  lids  back. 

He  rose,  built  a  fire,  and  finding  water  made  a 
pot  of  tea.  Then  he  saddled  the  buckskin,  and  un- 
tethered  the  Wolf,  saying:  "We'll  eat  a  bite  and 
pull  out." 

The  rest  and  sleep  had  refreshed  the  Wolf,  and 
he  plodded  on  in  front  of  the  buckskin  feeling  that 
though  his  money  was  gone  his  chances  of  escape 
were  good. 

At  eight  o'clock  the  square  forms  of  log  shacks 
leaning  groggily  against  a  sloping  hill  came  into 
view;  it  was  Hobbema;  and,  swinging  a  little  to  the 
left,  in  an  hour  they  were  close  to  the  Post. 

Carney  knew  where  the  police  shack  lay,  and 
skirting  the  town  he  drew  up  in  front  of  a  log  shack, 
an  iron-barred  window  at  the  end  proclaiming  it 
was  the  Barracks.  He  slipped  from  the  saddle, 
dropped  the  rein  over  his  horse's  head,  and  said 
quietly  to  the  Wolf:  "Knock  on  the  door,  open  it, 
and  step  inside,"  the  muzzle  of  his  gun  emphasizing 
the  command. 

He  followed  close  at  the  Wolf's  heels,  standing 
in  the  open  door  as  the  latter  entered.  He  had  ex- 


BULLDOG  CARNEY  57 

pected  to  see  perhaps  one,  not  more  than  two  con- 
stables, but  at  a  little  square  table  three  men  in 
khaki  sat  eating  breakfast. 

"Good  morning,  gentlemen,"  Carney  said  cheer- 
ily; "I've  brought  you  a  prisoner,  Bulldog  Carney." 

The  one  who  sat  at  table  with  his  back  to  the 
door  turned  his  head  at  this;  then  he  sprang  to  his 
feet,  peered  into  the  prisoner's  face  and  laughed. 

"Bulldog  nothing,  Sergeant;  you've  bagged  the 
Wolf." 

The  speaker  thrust  his  face  almost  into  the 
Wolf's.  "Where's  my  uniform — where's  my  horse  ? 
I've  got  you  now — set  me  afoot  to  starve,  would 
you,  you  damn  thief — you  murderer  I  Where's  the 
five  hundred  dollars  you  stole  from  the  little  teacher 
at  Fort  Victor?" 

He  was  trembling  with  passion;  words  flew  from 
his  lips  like  bullets  from  a  gatling — it  was  a  torrent. 

But  fast  as  the  accusation  had  come,  into  Carney's 
quick  mind  flashed  the  truth — the  speaker  was  Ser- 
geant Heath.  The  game  was  up.  Still  it  was  amus- 
ing. What  a  devilish  droll  blunder  he  had  made. 
His  hands  crept  quietly  to  his  two  guns,  the  police 
gun  in  the  belt  and  his  own  beneath  the  khaki  coat. 

Also  the  Wolf  knew  his  game  was  up.  His  blood 
surged  hot  at  the  thought  that  Carney's  meddling 
had  trapped  him.  He  was  caught,  but  the  author  of 
his  evil  luck  should  not  escape. 

"That's  Bulldog  Carney/"  he  cried  fiercely;  "don't 
let  him  get  away." 


58  BULLDOG  CARNEY 

Startled,  the  two  constables  at  the  table  sprang  to 
their  feet. 

A  sharp,  crisp  voice  said:  "The  first  man  that 
reaches  for  a  gun  drops."  They  were  covered  by 
two  guns  held  in  the  steady  hands  of  the  man  whose 
small  gray  eyes  watched  from  out  narrowed  lids. 

"I'll  make  you  a  present  of  the  Wolf,"  Carney 
said  quietly;  "I  thought  I  had  Sergeant  Heath.  I 
could  almost  forgive  this  man,  if  he  weren't  such  a 
skunk,  for  doing  the  job  for  me.  Now  I  want  you 
chaps  to  pass,  one  by  one,  into  the  pen,"  and  he 
nodded  toward  a  heavy  wooden  door  that  led  from 
the  room  they  were  in  to  the  other  room  that  had 
been  fitted  up  as  a  cell.  "I  see  your  carbines  and 
gunbelts  on  the  rack — you  really  should  have  been 
properly  in  uniform  by  this  time ;  I'll  dump  them  out 
on  the  prairie  somewhere,  and  you'll  find  them  in 
the  course  of  a  day  or  so.  Step  in,  boys,  and  you 
go  first,  Wolf." 

When  the  four  men  had  passed  through  the  door 
Carney  dropped  the  heavy  wooden  bar  into  place, 
turned  the  key  in  the  padlock,  gathered  up  the  fire 
arms,  mounted  the  buckskin,  and  rode  into  the  west. 

A  week  later  the  little  school  teacher  at  Fort 
Victor  received  through  the  mail  a  packet  that  con- 
tained five  hundred  dollars,  and  this  note : — 

DEAR  Miss  BLACK: — 

I  am  sending  you  the  five  hundred  dol- 

,    lars  that  you  bet  on   a  bad  man.     No 

woman  can  afford  to  bet  on  even  a  good 


BULLDOG  CARNEY  59 

man.  Stick  to  the  kids,  for  I've  heard  they 
love  you.  If  those  Indians  hadn't  picked 
up  Sergeant  Heath  and  got  him  to  Hob- 
bema  before  I  got  away  with  your  money 
I  wouldn't  have  known,  and  you'd  have 
lost  out. 

Yours  delightedly, 

BULLDOG  CARNEY. 


II 

BULLDOG  CARNEY'S  ALIBI 

A  DAY'S  trail  north  from  where  Idaho  and  Mon- 
tana come  together  on  the  Canadian  border,  fumed 
and  fretted  Bucking  Horse  River.  Its  nomencla- 
ture was  a  little  bit  of  all  right,  for  from  the  minute 
it  trickled  from  a  huge  blue-green  glacier  up  in  the 
Selkirks  till  it  fell  into  the  Kootenay,  it  bucked  its 
way  over,  under,  and  around  rock-cliffs,  and  areas 
of  stolid  mountain  sides  that  still  held  gigantic  pine 
and  cedar. 

It  had  ripped  from  the  bowels  of  a  mountain  peb- 
bles of  gold,  and  the  town  of  Bucking  Horse  was 
the  home  of  men  who  had  come  at  the  call  of  the 
yellow  god. 

When  Bulldog  Carney  struck  Bucking  Horse  it 
was  a  sick  town,  decrepid,  suffering  from  premature 
old  age,  for  most  of  the  mines  had  petered  out. 

One  hotel,  the  Gold  Nugget,  still  clung  to  its 
perch  on  a  hillside,  looking  like  a  bird  cage  hung 
from  a  balcony. 

Carney  had  known  its  proprietor,  Seth  Long,  in 
the  Coeur  d'Alene:  Seth  and  Jeanette  Holt;  in  the 
way  of  disapproval  Seth,  for  he  was  a  skidder; 
Jeanette  with  a  manly  regard,  for  she  was  as  much 
on  the  level  as  a  gyroscope. 

60 


BULLDOG  CARNEY'S  ALIBI  61 

Carney  was  not  after  gold  that  is  battled  from 
obdurate  rocks  with  drill  and  shovel.  He  was  a 
gallant  knight  of  the  road — a  free  lance  of  adven- 
ture; considering  that  a  man  had  better  lie  in  bed 
and  dream  than  win  money  by  dreary  unexciting 
toil.  His  lithe  six  foot  of  sinewy  anatomy,  the  calm, 
keen,  gray  eye,  the  splendid  cool  insulated  nerve 
and  sweet  courage,  the  curious  streaks  of  chivalry, 
all  these  would  have  perished  tied  to  routine.  Like 
"Bucking  Horse"  his  name,  "Bulldog"  Carney,  was 
an  inspiration. 

He  had  ridden  his  famous  buckskin,  Pat,  up  from 
the  Montana  border,  mentally  surveying  his  desire, 
a  route  for  running  into  the  free  and  United  States 
opium  without  the  little  formality  of  paying  Uncle 
Sam  the  exorbitant  and  unnatural  duty.  That  was 
why  he  first  came  to  Bucking  Horse. 

The  second  day  after  his  arrival  Seth  Long  bought 
for  a  few  hundred  dollars  the  Little  Widow  mine 
that  was  almost  like  a  back  yard  to  the  hotel.  Peo- 
ple laughed,  for  it  was  a  worked-out  proposition; 
when  he  put  a  gang  of  men  to  work,  pushing  on  the 
long  drift,  they  laughed  again.  When  Seth  threw 
up  his  hands  declaring  that  the  Little  Widow  was 
no  good,  those  who  had  laughed  told  him  that  they 
had  known  it  all  the  time. 

But  what  they  didn't  know  was  that  the  long  drift 
in  the  mine  now  ran  on  until  it  was  directly  under 
the  Gold  Nugget  hotel. 

It  was  Carney  who  had  worked  that  out,  and 
Seth  and  his  hotel  were  established  as  a  clearing 


62  BULLDOG  CARNEY 

station  for  the  opium  that  was  shipped  in  by  train 
from  Vancouver  in  tins  labelled  "Peaches," 
"Salmon,"  or  any  old  thing.  It  was  stored  in  the 
mine  and  taken  from  there  by  pack-train  down  to 
the  border,  and  switched  across  at  Bailey's  Ferry, 
the  U.  S.  customs  officers  at  that  point  being  nice 
lovable  chaps;  or  sometimes  it  crossed  the  Kootenay 
in  a  small  boat  at  night. 

Bulldog  supervised  that  end  of  the  business, 
bringing  the  heavy  payments  in  gold  back  to  Buck- 
ing Horse  on  a  laden  mule  behind  his  buckskin; 
then  the  gold  was  expressed  by  train  to  the  head 
office  of  this  delightful  trading  company  in  Van- 
couver. 

This  endeavor  ran  along  smoothly,  for  the  whole 
mining  West  was  one  gigantic  union,  standing  "agin 
the  government" — any  old  government,  U.  S.  or 
Canadian. 

Carney's  enterprise  was  practically  legitimatized 
by  public  opinion;  besides  there  was  the  compelling 
matter  of  Bulldog's  proficiency  in  looking  after  him- 
self. People  had  grown  into  the  habit  of  leaving  him 
alone. 

The  Mounted  Police  more  or  less  supervised  the 
region,  and  sometimes  one  of  them  would  be  in 
Bucking  Horse  for  a  few  days,  and  sometimes  the 
town  would  be  its  own  custodian. 

One  autumn  evening  Carney  rode  up  the  Bucking 
Horse  valley  at  his  horse's  heels  a  mule  that  carried 
twenty  thousand  dollars  in  gold  slung  from  either 
side  of  a  pack  saddle. 


BULLDOG  CARNEY'S  ALIBI  63 

Carney  went  straight  to  the  little  railway  station, 
and  expressed  the  gold  to  Vancouver,  getting  the 
agent's  assurance  that  it  would  go  out  on  the  night 
train  which  went  through  at  one  o'clock.  Then  he 
rode  back  to  the  Gold  Nugget  and  put  his  horse  and 
mule  in  the  stable. 

As  he  pushed  open  the  front  door  of  the  hotel 
he  figuratively  stepped  into  a  family  row,  a  row  so 
self-centered  that  the  parties  interested  were  un- 
aware of  his  entrance. 

A  small  bar  occupied  one  corner  of  the  dim- 
lighted  room,  and  behind  this  Seth  Long  leaned 
back  against  the  bottle  rack,  with  arms  folded  across 
his  big  chest,  puffing  at  a  thick  cigar.  Facing  him, 
with  elbows  on  the  bar,  a  man  was  talking  volubly, 
anger  speeding  up  his  vocalization. 

Beside  the  man  stood  Jeanette  Holt,  fire  flashing 
from  her  black  eyes,  and  her  nostrils  dilated  with 
passion.  She  interrupted  the  voluble  one : 

"Yes,  Seth,  I  did  slap  this  cheap  affair,  Jack  Wolf, 
fair  across  the  ugly  mouth,  and  I'll  do  it  again!" 

Seth  tongued  the  cigar  to  one  corner  of  his  ample 
lips,  and  drawled:  "That's  a  woman's  privilege, 
Jack,  if  a  feller's  give  her  just  cause  for  action 
You  ain't  got  no  kick  comin',  I  reckon,  'cause  this 
little  woman  ain't  one  to  fly  off  the  handle  for 
nothin'." 

"Nothin',  Seth?  I  guess  when  I  tell  you  what 
got  her  dander  up  you'll  figger  you've  got  another 
think  comin'.  You're  like  a  good  many  men  I  see — 
you're  bein'  stung.  That  smooth  proposition,  Bull- 


64  BULLDOG  CARNEY 

dog  Carney,  is  stingin'  you  right  here  in  your  own 
nest." 

Biff! 

That  was  the  lady's  hand,  flat  open,  impinged  on 
the  speaker's  cheek. 

The  Wolf  sprang  back  with  an  oath,  put  his  hand 
to  his  cheek,  and  turned  to  Seth  with  a  volley  of 
denunciation  starting  from  his  lips.  At  a  look  that 
swept  over  the  proprietor's  face  he  turned,  stared, 
and  stifling  an  oath  dropped  a  hand  subconsciously 
to  the  butt  of  his  gun. 

Bulldog  Carney  had  stepped  quickly  across  the 
room,  and  was  now  at  his  side,  saying: 

"So  you're  here,  Jack  the  Wolf,  eh?  I  thought 
I  had  rid  civilization  of  your  ugly  presence  when  I 
turned  you  over  to  the  police  at  Hobbema  for  mur- 
dering your  mate." 

"That  was  a  trumped-up  charge,"  the  Wolf  stam- 
mered. 

"Ah I  I  see — acquitted!  I  can  guess  it  in  once. 
Nobody  saw  you  put  that  little  round  hole  in  the 
back  of  Alberta  Bill's  head — not  even  Bill;  and  he 
was  dead  and  couldn't  talk." 

Carney's  gray  eyes  travelled  up  and  down  the 
Wolf's  form  in  a  cold,  searching  manner;  then  he 
added,  with  the  same  aggravating  drawl:  "You  put 
your  hands  up  on  the  bar,  same  as  you  were  set 
when  I  came  in,  or  something  will  happen.  I've  got 
a  proposition." 

The  Wolf  hesitated;  but  Bulldog's  right  hand 
rested  carelessly  on  his  belt.  Slowly  the  Wolf  lifted 


BULLDOG  CARNEY'S  ALIBI  65 

his  arm  till  his  fingers  touched  the  wooden  rail,  say- 
ing, surlily: 

"I  ain't  got  no  truck  with  you;  I  don't  want  no 
proposition  from  a  man  that  plays  into  the  hands  of 
the  damn  police." 

"You  can  cut  out  the  rough  stuff,  Wolf,  while 
there's  a  lady  present." 

Carney  deliberately  turned  his  shoulder  to  the 
scowling  man,  and  said,  "How  d'you  do,  Miss 
Holt?"  touching  his  hat.  Then  he  added,  "Seth, 
locate  a  bottle  on  the  bar  and  deal  glasses  all 
round." 

As  Long  deftly  twirled  little  heavy-bottomed 
glasses  along  the  plank  as  though  he  were  dealing 
cards,  Carney  turned,  surveyed  the  room,  and  ad- 
dressing a  man  who  sat  in  a  heavy  wooden  chair 
beside  a  square  box-stove,  said:  "Join  up,  stranger 
— we're  going  to  liquidate." 

The  man  addressed  came  forward,  and  lined  up 
the  other  side  of  Jack  Wolf. 

"Cayuse  Braun,  Mr.  Carney,"  Seth  lisped  past 
his  fat  cigar  as  he  shoved  a  black  bottle  toward 
Bulldog. 

"The  gents  first,"  the  latter  intimated. 

The  bottle  was  slid  down  to  Cayuse,  who  filled 
his  glass  and  passed  it  back  to  Wolf.  The  latter 
carried  it  irritably  past  him  without  filling  his  glass. 

"Help  yourself,  Wolf."  It  was  a  command,  not 
an  invitation,  in  Carney's  voice. 

"I'm  not  drinkin',"  Jack  snarled. 


66  BULLDOG  CARNEY 

"Yes,  you  are.    I've  got  a  toast  that's  got  to  be 


unanimous." 


Seth,  with  a  wink  at  Wolf,  tipped  the  bottle  and 
half  filled  the  latter's  glass,  saying,  "Be  a  sport, 
Jack." 

As  he  turned  to  hand  the  bottle  to  Carney  he 
arched  his  eyebrows  at  Jeanette,  and  the  girl  slipped 
quietly  away. 

Bulldog  raised  his  glass  of  whisky,  and  said: 

"Gents,  we're  going  to  drink  to  the  squarest  little 
woman  it  has  ever  been  my  good  fortune  to  run 
across.  Here's  to  Miss  Jeanette  Holt,  the  truest 
pal  that  Seth  Long  ever  had — Miss  Jeanette." 

Cayuse  and  Seth  tossed  off  their  liquor,  but  the 
Wolf  did  not  touch  his  glass. 

"You  drink  to  that  toast  dam  quick,  Jack  Wolf  I" 
and  Carney's  voice  was  deadly. 

The  room  had  grown  still.  One,  two,  three,  a 
wooden  clock  on  the  shelf  behind  the  bar  ticked  off 
the  seconds  in  the  heavy  quiet;  and  in  a  far  corner 
the  piping  of  a  stray  cricket  sounded  like  the  drool 
of  a  pfirrari. 

There  was  a  click  of  a  latch,  a  muffled  scrape  as 
the  outer  door  pushed  open.  This  seemed  to  break 
the  holding  spell  of  fear  that  was  over  the  Wolf. 

"I'll  see  you  in  hell,  Bulldog  Carney,  before  I 
drink  with  you  or  a  girl  that " 

The  whisky  that  was  in  Carney's  glass  shot  fair 
into  the  speaker's  open  mouth.  As  his  hand  jumped 
to  his  gun  the  wrist  was  seized  with  a  loosening 
twist,  and  the  heel  of  Bulldog's  open  right  hand 


BULLDOG  CARNEY'S  ALIBI  67 

caught  him  under  the  chin  with  a  force  that  fair 
lifted  him  from  his  feet  to  drop  on  the  back  of  his 
head. 

A  man  wearing  a  brass-buttoned  khaki  jacket  with 
blue  trousers  down  which  ran  wide  yellow  stripes, 
darted  from  where  he  had  stood  at  the  door,  put 
his  hand  on  Bulldog's  shoulder,  and  said: 

"You're  under  arrest  in  the  Queen's  name,  Bull- 
dog Carney!" 

Carney  reached  down  and  picked  up  the  Wolf's 
gun  that  lay  where  it  had  fallen  from  his  twisted 
hand,  and  passed  it  to  Seth  without  comment.  Then 
he  looked  the  man  in  the  khaki  coat  up  and  down 
and  coolly  asked.  "Are  you  anybody  in  particular, 
stranger?" 

"I'm  Sergeant  Black  of  the  Mounted  Police." 

"You  amuse  me,  Sergeant;  you're  unusual,  even 
for  a  member  of  that  joke  bank,  the  Mounted." 

"Fine!"  the  Sergeant  sneered,  subdued  anger  in 
his  voice;  "I'll  entertain  you  for  several  days  over 
in  the  pen." 

"On  what  grounds?" 

"You'll  find  out." 

"Yes,  and  now,  declare  yourself  I" 

"We  don't  allow  rough  house,  gun  play,  and 
knocking  people  down,  in  Bucking  Horse,"  the  Ser- 
geant retorted;  "assault  means  the  pen  when  I'm 
here." 

"Then  take  that  thing,"  and  Bulldog  jerked  a 
thumb  toward  Jack  Wolf,  who  stood  at  a  far  corner 
of  the  bar  whispering  with  Cayuse. 


68  BULLDOG  CARNEY 

"I'll  take  you,  Bulldog  Carney." 

"Not  if  that's  all  you've  got  as  reason,"  and  Car- 
ney, either  hand  clasping  his  slim  waist,  the  palms 
resting  on  his  hips,  eyed  the  Sergeant,  a  faint  smile 
lifting  his  tawny  mustache. 

"You're  wanted,  Bulldog  Carney,  and  you  know 
it.  I've  been  waiting  a  chance  to  rope  you ;  now  I've 
got  you,  and  you're  coming  along.  There's  a  thou- 
sand on  you  over  in  Calgary;  and  you've  been  run- 
ning coke  over  the  line." 

"Ohl  that's  it,  eh?  Well,  Sergeant,  in  plain  Eng- 
lish you're  a  tenderfoot  to  not  know  that  the  Alberta 
thing  doesn't  hold  in  British  Columbia.  You'll  find 
that  out  when  you  wire  headquarters  for  instruc- 
tions, which  you  will,  of  course.  I  think  it's  easier 
for  me,  my  dear  Sergeant,  to  let  you  get  this  tangle 
straightened  out  by  going  with  you  than  to  kick  you 
into  the  street;  then  they  would  have  something  on 
me — something  because  I'd  mussed  up  the  uniform." 

"Carney  ain't  had  no  supper,  Sergeant,"  Seth  de- 
clared; "and  I'll  go  bail " 

"I'm  not  takin'  bail;  and  you  can  send  his  supper 
over  to  the  lock-up." 

The  Sergeant  had  drawn  from  his  pocket  a  pair 
of  handcuffs. 

Carney  grinned. 

"Put  them  back  in  your  pocket,  Sergeant,"  he 
advised.  "I  said  I'd  go  with  you;  but  if  you  try  to 
clamp  those  things  on,  the  trouble  is  all  your  own." 

Black  looked  into  the  gray  eyes  and  hesitated; 
then  even  his  duty-befogged  mind  realized  that  he 


BULLDOG  CARNEY'S  ALIBI  69 

would  take  too  big  a  chance  by  insisting.  He  held 
out  his  hand  toward  Carney's  gun,  and  the  latter 
turned  it  over  to  him.  Then  the  two,  the  Sergeant's 
hand  slipped  through  Carney's  arm,  passed  out. 

Just  around  the  corner  was  the  police  barracks,  a 
square  log  shack  divided  by  a  partition.  One  room 
was  used  as  an  office,  and  contained  a  bunk;  the 
other  room  had  been  built  as  a  cell,  and  a  heavy 
wooden  door  that  carried  a  bar  and  strong  lock  gave 
entrance.  There  was  one  small  window  safeguarded 
by  iron  bars  firmly  embedded  in  the  logs.  Into  this 
bull-pen,  as  it  was  called,  Black  ushered  Carney  by 
the  light  of  a  candle.  There  was  a  wooden  bunk  in 
one  end,  the  sole  furniture. 

"Neat,  but  not  over  decorated,"  Carney  com- 
mented as  he  surveyed  the  bare  interior.  "No  won- 
der, with  such  surroundings,  my  dear  Sergeant,  you 
fellows  are  angular." 

"I've  heard,  Bulldog,  that  you  fancied  yourself  a 
superior  sort." 

"Not  at  all,  Sergeant;  you  have  my  entire  sym- 
pathy." 

The  Sergeant  sniffed.  "If  they  give  you  three 
years  at  Stony  Mountain  perhaps  you'll  drop  some 
of  that  side." 

Carney  sat  down  on  the  side  of  the  bed,  took  a 
cigarette  case  from  his  pocket  and  asked,  "Do  you 
allow  smoking  here?  It  won't  fume  up  your  cur- 
tains, will  it?" 

"It's  against  the  regulations,  but  you  smoke  if. 
you  want  to." 


70  BULLDOG  CARNEY 

Carney's  supper  was  brought  in  and  when  he  had 
eaten  it  Sergeant  Black  went  into  the  cell,  saying: 
"You're  a  pretty  slippery  customer,  Bulldog — I 
ought  to  put  the  bangles  on  you  for  the  night." 

Rather  irrelevantly,  and  with  a  quizzical  smile, 
Carney  asked,  "Have  you  read  'Les  Miserables,' 
Sergeant?" 

"I  ain't  read  a  paper  in  a  month — I've  been  too 
busy." 

"It  isn't  a  paper,  it's  a  story." 

"I  ain't  got  no  time  for  readin'  magazines  either." 

"This  is  a  story  that  was  written  long  ago  by  a 
Frenchman,"  Carney  persisted. 

"Then  I  don't  want  to  read  it.  The  trickiest 
damn  bunch  that  ever  come  into  these  mountains  are 
them  Johnnie  Crapeaus  from  Quebec — they're  more 
damn  trouble  to  the  police  than  so  many  Injuns." 

The  soft  quizzical  voice  of  Carney  interrupted 
Black  gently.  "You  put  me  in  mind  of  a  character 
in  that  story,  Sergeant;  he  was  the  best  drawn,  if  I 
might  discriminate  over  a  great  story." 

This  allusion  touched  Black's  vanity,  and  drew 
him  to  ask,  "What  did  he  do — how  am  I  like  him?" 
He  eyed  Carney  suspiciously. 

"The  character  I  liked  in  'Les  Miserables'  was  a 
policeman,  like  yourself,  and  his  mind  was  only  ca- 
pable of  containing  the  one  idea — duty.  It  was  a 
fetish  with  him;  he  was  a  fanatic." 

"You're  damn  funny,  Bulldog,  ain't  you?  What 
I  ought  to  do  is  slip  the  bangles  on  you  and  leave 
you  in  the  dark." 


BULLDOG  CARNEY'S  ALIBI  71 

"If  you  could.  I  give  you  full  permission  to  try, 
Sergeant ;  if  you  can  clamp  them  on  me  there  won't 
be  any  hard  feelings,  and  the  first  time  I  meet  you 
on  the  trail  I  won't  set  you  afoot." 

Carney  had  risen  to  his  feet,  ostensibly  to  throw 
his  cigarette  through  the  bars  of  the  open  window. 

Black  stood  glowering  at  him.  He  knew  Carney's 
reputation  well  enough  to  know  that  to  try  to  hand- 
cuff him  meant  a  fight — a  fight  over  nothing;  and 
unless  he  used  a  gun  he  might  possibly  get  the  worst 
of  it. 

"It  would  only  be  spite  work,"  Carney  declared 
presently;  "these  logs  would  hold  anybody,  and  you 
know  it." 

In  spite  of  his  rough  manner  the  Sergeant  rather 
admired  Bulldog's  gentlemanly  independence,  the 
quiet  way  in  which  he  had  submitted  to  arrest;  it 
would  be  a  feather  in  his  cap  that,  single-handed, 
he  had  locked  the  famous  Bulldog  up.  His  better 
sense  told  him  to  leave  well  enough  alone. 

"Yes,"  he  said  grudgingly,  "I  guess  these  walls 
will  hold  you.  I'll  be  sleeping  in  the  other  room,  a 
reception  committee  if  you  have  callers." 

"Thanks,  Sergeant.  I  take  it  all  back.  Leave  me 
a.  candle,  and  give  me  something  to  read." 

Black  pondered  over  this;  but  Carney's  allusion  to 
the  policeman  in  "Les  Miserables"  had  had  an  ef- 
fect. He  brought  from  the  other  room  a  couple  of 
magazines  and  a  candle,  went  out,  and  locked  the 
door. 

Carney  pulled  off  his  boots,  stretched  himself  on 


7£  BULLDOG  CARNEY 

the  bunk  and  read.  He  could  hear  Sergeant  Black 
fussing  at  a  table  in  the  outer  room ;  then  the  Sergeant 
went  out  and  Carney  knew  that  he  had  gone  to  send 
a  wire  to  Major  Silver  for  instructions  about  his 
captive.  After  a  time  he  came  back.  About  ten 
o'clock  Carney  heard  the  policeman's  boots  drop  on 
the  floor,  his  bunk  creak,  and  knew  that  the  repre- 
sentative of  the  law  had  retired.  A  vagrant  thought 
traversed  his  mind  that  the  heavy-dispositioned, 
phlegmatic  policeman  would  be  a  sound  sleeper  once 
oblivious.  However,  that  didn't  matter,  there  was 
no  necessity  for  escape. 

Carney  himself  dozed  over  a  wordy  story,  only 
to  be  suddenly  wakened  by  a  noise  at  his  elbow. 
Wary,  through  the  vicissitudes  of  his  order  of  life  he 
sat  up  wide  awake,  ready  for  action.  Then  by  the 
light  of  the  sputtering  candle  he  saw  his  magazine 
sprawling  on  the  floor,  and  knew  he  had  been  wak- 
ened by  its  fall.  His  bunk  had  creaked;  but  listen- 
ing, no  sound  reached  his  ears  from  the  other  room, 
except  certain  stertorous  breathings.  He  had 
guessed  right,  Sergeant  Black  was  an  honest  sleeper, 
one  of  Shakespeare's  full-paunched  kind. 

Carney  blew  out  the  candle;  and  now,  perversely, 
his  mind  refused  to  cuddle  down  and  rest,  but  took 
up  the  matter  of  Jack  the  Wolf's  presence.  He 
hated  to  know  that  such  an  evil  beast  was  even  in- 
directly associated  with  Seth,  who  was  easily  led. 
His  concern  was  not  over  Seth  so  much  as  over 
Jeanette. 

He  lay  wide  awake  in  the  dark  for  an  hour;  then 


BULLDOG  CARNEY'S  ALIBI  73 

a  faint  noise  came  from  the  barred  window;  it  was 
a  measured,  methodical  click-click-click  of  a  pebble 
tapping  on  iron. 

With  the  stealthiness  of  a  cat  he  left  the  bunk, 
so  gently  that  no  tell-tale  sound  rose  from  its  boards, 
and  softly  stepping  to  the  window  thrust  the  fingers 
of  one  hand  between  the  bars. 

A  soft  warm  hand  grasped  his,  and  he  felt  the 
smooth  sides  of  a  folded  paper.  As  he  gave  the 
hand  a  reassuring  pressure,  his  knuckles  were  tapped 
gently  by  something  hard.  He  transferred  the  paper 
to  his  other  hand,  and  reaching  out  again,  something 
was  thrust  into  it,  that  when  he  lifted  it  within  he 
found  was  a  strong  screw-driver. 

He  crept  back  to  his  bunk,  slipped  the  screw- 
driver between  the  blankets,  and  standing  by  the 
door  listened  for  ten  seconds ;  then  a  faint  gurgling 
breath  told  him  that  Black  slept. 

Making  a  hiding  canopy  of  his  blanket,  he  lighted 
his  candle,  unfolded  the  paper,  and  read: 

"Two  planks,  north  end,  fastened  with  screws. 
Below  is  tunnel  that  leads  to  the  mine.  Will  meet 
you  there.  Come  soon.  Important." 

There  was  no  name  signed,  but  Carney  knew  it 
was  Jeanette's  writing. 

He  blew  out  the  candle  and  stepping  softly  to  the 
other  end  of  the  pen  knelt  down,  and  with  his  finger- 
tips searched  the  ends  of  the  two  planks  nearest  the 
log  wall.  At  first  he  was  baffled,  his  fingers  finding 
the  flat  heads  of  ordinary  nails;  but  presently  he 
discovered  that  these  heads  were  dummies,  half  an 


74,  BULLDOG  CARNEY 

inch  long.  Suddenly  a  board  rasped  in  the  other 
room.  He  had  just  time  to  slip  back  to  his  bunk 
when  a  key  clinked  in  the  lock,  and  a  light  glinted 
through  a  chink  as  the  door  opened. 

As  if  suddenly  startled  from  sleep,  Carney  called 
out: 

"Who's  that — what  do  you  want?" 
The  Sergeant  peered  in  and  answered,  "Nothing! 
thought  I  heard  you  moving  about.     Are  you  all 
right,  Carney?" 

He  swept  the  pen  with  his  candle,  noted  Carney's 
boots  on  the  floor,  and,  satisfied,  closed  the  door 
and  went  back  to  his  bunk. 

This  interruption  rather  pleased  Carney;  he  felt 
that  it  was  a  somnolent  sense  of  duty,  responsibility, 
that  had  wakened  Black.  Now  that  he  had  investi- 
gated and  found  everything  all  right  he  would  prob- 
ably sleep  soundly  for  hours. 

Carney  waited  ten  minutes.  The  Sergeant's  bunk 
had  given  a  note  of  complaint  as  its  occupant  turned 
over;  now  it  was  still.  Taking  his  boots  in  his  hand 
he  crept  back  to  the  end  of  the  pen  and  rapidly, 
noiselessly,  withdrew  the  screw-nails  from  both  ends 
of  two  planks.  Then  he  crept  back  to  the  door  and 
listened;  the  other  room  was  silent  save  for  the 
same  little  sleep  breathings  he  had  heard  before. 

With  the  screw-driver  he  lifted  the  planks,  slipped 
through  the  opening,  all  in  the  dark,  and  drew  the 
planks  back  into  place  over  his  head.  He  had  to 
crouch  in  the  little  tunnel. 

Pulling  on  his  boots,   on  hands   and  knees   he 


BULLDOG  CARNEY'S  ALIBI  75 

crawled  through  the  small  tunnel  for  fifty  yards. 
Then  he  came  to  stope  timbers  stood  on  end,  and 
turning  these  to  one  side  found  himself  in  what  he 
knew  must  be  a  cross-cut  from  the  main  drift  that 
ran  between  the  mine  opening  and  the  hotel. 

As  he  stood  up  in  this  he  heard  a  faint  whistle, 
and  whispered,  "Jeanette." 

The  girl  came  forward  in  the  dark,  her  hand 
touching  his  arm. 

"I'm  so  glad,"  she  whispered.  "We'd  better 
stand  here  in  the  dark,  for  I  have  something  serious 
to  tell  you." 

Then  in  a  low  tone  the  girl  said: 

"The  Wolf  and  Cayuse  Braun  are  going  to  hold 
up  the  train  to-night,  just  at  the  end  of  the  trestle, 
and  rob  the  express  car." 

"IsSethinit?" 

"Yes,  he's  standing  in,  but  he  isn't  going  to  help 
on  the  job."  The  Wolf  is  going  to  board  the  train 
at  the  station,  and  enter  the  express  car  when  the 
train  is  creeping  over  the  trestle.  He's  got  a  bar 
and  rope  for  fastening  the  door  of  the  car  behind 
the  express  car.  When  the  engine  reaches  the  other 
side  Cayuse  will  jump  it,  hold  up  the  engineer,  and 
make  him  stop  the  train  long  enough  to  throw  the 
gold  off  while  the  other  cars  are  still  on  the  trestle; 
then  the  Wolf  will  jump  off,  and  Cayuse  will  force 
the  engineer  to  carry  the  train  on,  and  he  will  drop 
off  on  the  up-grade,  half  a  mile  beyond." 

"Old  stuff,  but  rather  effective,"  Carney  com- 
mented; "they'll  get  away  with  it,  I  believe." 


{76  BULLDOG  CARNEY 

"I  listened  to  them  planning  the  whole  thing  out,'* 
Jeanette  confessed,  "and  they  didn't  know  I  could 
hear  them." 

"What  about  this  little  tunnel  under  the  jail — 
that's  a  new  one  on  me?" 

"Seth  had  it  dug,  pretending  he  was  looking  for 
gold;  but  the  men  who  dug  it  didn't  know  that  it 
led  under  the  jail,  and  he  finished  it  himself,  fixed 
the  planks,  and  all.  You  see  when  the  police  go 
away  they  leave  the  keys  with  Seth  in  case  any  sud- 
den trouble  comes  up.  Nobody  knows  about  it  but 
Seth." 

There  was  a  tang  of  regret  in  Carney's  voice  as 
he  said: 

"Seth  is  playing  it  pretty  low  down,  Jeanette ;  he's 
practically  stealing  from  his  pals.  I  put  twenty 
thousand  in  gold  in  to-night  to  go  by  that  train,  coke 
money;  he  knows  it,  and  that's  what  these  thieves 
are  after." 

"Surely  Seth  wouldn't  do  that,  Bulldog — steal 
from  his  partners!" 

"Well,  not  quite,  Jeanette.  He  figures  that  the 
express  company  is  responsible,  will  have  to  make 
good,  and  that  my  people  will  get  their  money 
back;  but  all  the  same,  it's  kind  of  like  that — it's 
rotten  1" 

"What  am  I  to  do,  Bulldog?  I  can't  peach,  can 
I — not  on  Seth — not  while  I'm  living  with  him? 
And  he's  been  kind  of  good  to  me,  too.  He  ain't 
— well,  once  I  thought  he  was  all  right,  but  since  I 
knew  you  it's  been  different.  I've  stuck  to  him — you 


BULLDOG  CARNEY'S  ALIBI  77 

know,  Bulldog,  how  straight  I've  been — but  a  thief!" 

"No,  you  can't  give  Seth  away,  Jeanette,"  Carney 
broke  in,  for  the  girl's  voice  carried  a  tremble. 

"I  think  they  had  planned,  that  you  being  here  in 
Bucking  Horse,  the  police  would  kind  of  throw  the 
blame  of  this  thing  on  you.  Then  your  being  ar- 
rested upset  that.  What  am  I  to  do,  Bulldog? 
Will  you  speak  to  Seth  and  stop  it?" 

"No.  He'd  know  you  had  told  me,  and  your  life 
with  him  would  be  just  hell.  Besides,  girl,  I'm  in 
jail." 

"But  you're  free  now — you'll  go  away." 

"Let  me  think  a  minute,  Jeanette." 

As  he  stood  pondering,  there  was  the  glint  of  a 
light,  a  faint  rose  flicker  on  the  wall  and  flooring 
of  the  cross-cut  they  stood  in,  and  they  saw,  passing 
along  the  main  drift,  Seth,  the  Wolf,  and  Cayuse 
Braun. 

The  girl  clutched  Carney's  arm  and  whispered, 
"There  they  go.  Seth  is  going  out  with  them,  but 
he'll  come  back  and  stay  in  the  hotel  while  they  pull 
the  job  off." 

The  passing  of  the  three  men  seemed  to  have  gal- 
vanized Carney  into  action,  fructified  in  his  mind 
some  plan,  for  he  said: 

"You  come  back  to  the  hotel,  Jeanette,  and  say 
nothing — I  will  see  what  I  can  do." 

"And  Seth — you  won't " 

"Plug  him  for  his  treachery?  No,  because  of  you 
he's  quite  safe.  Don't  bother  your  pretty  little  head 
about  it." 


78  BULLDOG  CARNEY 

The  girl's  hand  that  had  rested  all  this  time  on 
Carney's  arm  was  trembling.  Suddenly  she  said, 
brokenly,  hesitatingly,  just  as  a  school-girl  might 
have  blundered  over  wording  the  grand  passion: 

"Bulldog,  do  you  know  how  much  I  like  you? 
Have  you  ever  thought  of  it  at  all,  wondered?" 

"Yes,  many  times,  girl;  how  could  I  help  it?  You 
come  pretty  near  to  being  the  finest  girl  I  ever  knew." 

"But  we've  never  talked  about  it,  have  we,  Bull- 
dog?" 

"No;  why  should  we?  Different  men  have  differ- 
ent ideas  about  those  things.  Seth  can't  see  that 
because  that  gold  was  ours  in  the  gang,  he  shouldn't 
steal  it;  that's  one  kind  of  man.  I'm  different." 

"You  mean  that  I'm  like  the  gold?" 

"Yes,  I  guess  that's  what  I  mean.  You  see,  wel] 
— you  know  what  I  mean,  Jeanette." 

"But  you  like  me?" 

"So  much  that  I  want  to  keep  you  good  enough 
to  like." 

"Would  it  be  playing  the  game  crooked,  Bulldog, 
if  you — if  I  kissed  you?" 

"Not  wrong  for  you  to  do  it,  Jeanette,  because 
you  don't  know  how  to  do  what  I  call  wrong,  but 
I'm  afraid  I  couldn't  square  it  with  myself.  Don't 
get  this  wrong,  girl,  it  sounds  a  little  too  holy,  put 
just  that  way.  I've  kissed  many  a  fellow's  girl,  but 
I  don't  want  to  kiss  you,  being  Seth's  girl,  and  that 
isn't  because  of  Seth,  either.  Can  you  untangle  that 
— get  what  I  mean?" 


BULLDOG  CARNEY'S  ALIBI  79 

"I  get  it,  Bulldog.  You  are  some  man,  some 
man!" 

There  was  a  catch  in  the  girl's  voice ;  she  took  her 
hand  from  Carney's  arm  and  drew  the  back  of  it 
irritably  across  her  eyes;  then  she  said  in  a  steadier 
voice:  "Good  night,  man — I'm  going  back." 

Together  they  felt  their  way  along  the  cross-cut, 
and  when  they  came  to  the  main  drift,  Carney  said: 

"I'm  going  out  through  the  hotel,  Jeanette,  if 
there's  nobody  about;  I  want  to  get  my  horse  from 
the  stable.  When  we  come  to  the  cellar  you  go 
ahead  and  clear  the  way  for  me." 

The  passage  from  the  drift  through  the  cellar 
led  up  into  a  little  store-room  at  the  back  of  the 
hotel;  and  through  this  Carney  passed  out  to  the 
stable  where  he  saddled  his  bucksin,  transferring 
to  his  belt  a  gun  that  was  in  a  pocket  of  the  saddle. 
Then  he  fastened  to  the  horn  the  two  bags  that 
had  been  on  the  pack  mule.  Leading  the  buckskin 
out  he  avoided  the  street,  cut  down  the  hillside,  and 
skirted  the  turbulent  Bucking  Horse. 

A  half  moon  hung  high  in  a  deep-blue  sky  that 
in  both  sides  was  bitten  by  the  jagged  rock  teeth 
of  the  Rockies.  The  long  curving  wooden  trestle 
looked  like  the  skeleton  of  some  gigantic  serpent 
in  the  faint  moonlight,  its  head  resting  on  the  left 
bank  of  the  Bucking  Horse,  half  a  mile  from  where 
the  few  lights  of  the  mining  town  glimmered,  and 
its  tail  coming  back  to  the  same  side  of  the  stream 
after  traversing  two  short  kinks.  It  looked  so  in- 
adequate, so  frail  in  the  night  light  to  carry  the 


80  BULLDOG  CARNEY 

huge  Mogul  engine  with  its  trailing  cars.  No  won- 
der the  train  went  over  it  at  a  snail's  pace,  just  the 
pace  to  invite  a  highwayman's  attention. 

And  with  the  engine  stopped  with  a  pistol  at  the 
engineer's  head  what  chance  that  anyone  would  drop 
from  the  train  to  the  trestle  to  hurry  to  his  assist- 
ance. 

Carney  admitted  to  himself  that  the  hold-up  was 
fairly  well  planned,  and  no  doubt  would  go  through 

unless At  this  juncture  of  thought   Carney 

chuckled.  The  little  unforeseen  something  that  was 
always  popping  into  the  plans  of  crooks  might  even- 
tuate. 

When  he  came  to  thick  scrub  growth  Carney  dis- 
mounted, and  led  the  buckskin  whispering,  "Steady, 
Pat — easy,  my  boy!" 

The  bucksin  knew  that  he  must  make  no  noisy 
slip — that  there  was  no  hurry.  He  and  Carney 
had  chummed  together  for  three  years,  the  man 
talking  to  him  as  though  he  had  a  knowledge  of 
what  his  master  said,  and  he,  understanding  much  of 
the  import  if  not  the  uttered  signs. 

Sometimes  going  down  a  declivity  the  horse's  soft 
muzzle  was  over  Carney's  shoulder,  the  flexible 
upper  lip  snuggling  his  neck  or  cheek;  and  some- 
times as  they  went  up  again  Carney's  arm  was  over 
the  buckskin's  withers  and  they  walked  like  twp 
men  arm  in  arm. 

They  went  through  the  scrubby  bush  in  the  noise- 
less way  of  wary  deer;  no  telltale  stone  was  thrust 


BULLDOG  CARNEY'S  ALIBI  81 

loose  to  go  tinkling  down  the  hillside ;  they  trod  on 
no  dried  brush  to  break  with  snapping  noise. 

Presently  Carney  dropped  the  rein  from  over  the 
horse's  head  to  the  ground,  took  his  lariat  from  the 
saddle-horn,  hung  the  two  pack-bags  over  his  shoul- 
der, and  whispering,  "Wait  here,  Patsy  boy,"  slipped 
through  the  brush  and  wormed  his  way  cautiously 
to  a  huge  boulder  a  hundred  feet  from  the  trestle. 
There  he  sat  down,  his  back  against  the  rock,  and 
his  eye  on  the  blobs  of  yellow  light  that  was  Bucking 
Horse  town.  Presently  from  beyond  the  rock  car- 
ried to  his  listening  ears  the  clink  of  an  iron-shod 
hoof  against  a  stone,  and  he  heard  a  suppressed, 
"Damn!" 

"Coming,  I  guess,"  he  muttered  to  himself. 

The  heavy  booming  whistle  of  the  giant  Mogul 
up  on  the  Divide  came  hoarsely  down  the  Bucking 
Horse  Pass,  and  then  a  great  blaring  yellow-red  eye 
gleamed  on  the  mountain  side  as  if  some  Cyclops 
forced  his  angry  way  down  into  the  valley.  A  bell 
clanged  irritably  as  the  Mogul  rocked  in  its  swift 
glide  down  the  curved  grade ;  there  was  the  screech- 
ing grind  of  airbrakes  gripping  at  iron  wheels;  a 
mighty  sigh  as  the  compressed  air  seethed  from 
opened  valves  at  their  release  when  the  train  stood  at 
rest  beside  the  little  log  station  of  Bucking  Horse. 

He  could  see,  like  the  green  eye  of  some  serpent, 
the  conductor's  lantern  gyrate  across  the  platform; 
even  the  subdued  muffled  noise  of  packages  thrust 
into  the  express  car  carried  to  the  listener's  ear. 
Then  the  little  green  eye  blinked  a  command  to 


82  BULLDOG  CARNEY 

start,  the  bell  clanged,  the  Mogul  coughed  as  it 
strained  to  its  task,  the  drivers  gripped  at  steel  rails 
and  slipped,  the  Mogul's  heart  beating  a  tattoo  of 
gasping  breaths;  then  came  the  grinding  rasp  of 
wheel  flange  against  steel  as  the  heavy  train  ca- 
reened on  the  curve,  and  now  the  timbers  of  the 
trestle  were  whining  a  protest  like  the  twang  of 
loose  strings  on  a  harp. 

Carney  turned  on  his  hands  and  knees  and,  creep- 
ing around  to  the  far  side  of  the  rock,  saw  dimly 
in  the  faint  moonlight  the  figure  of  a  man  huddled 
in  a  little  rounded  heap  twenty  feet  from  the  rails. 
In  his  hand  the  barrel  of  a  gun  glinted  once  as  the 
moon  touched  it. 

Slowly,  like  some  ponderous  animal,  the  Mogul 
crept  over  the  trestle !  it  was  like  a  huge  centipede 
slipping  along  the  dead  limb  of  a  tree. 

When  the  engine  reached  the  solid  bank  the 
crouched  figure  sprang  to  the  steps  of  the  cab  and 
was  lost  to  view.  A  sharp  word  of  command  car- 
ried to  Carney's  ear;  he  heard  the  clanging  clamp 
of  the  air  brakes;  the  stertorous  breath  of  the  Mo- 
gul ceased;  the  train  stood  still,  all  behind  the  ex- 
press car  still  on  the  trestle. 

Then  a  square  of  yellow  light  shone  where  the 
car  door  had  slid  open,  and  within  stood  a  masked 
man,  a  gun  in  either  hand;  in  one  corner,  with  hands 
above  his  head,  and  face  to  the  wall,  stood  a  second 
man,  while  a  third  was  taking  from  an  iron  safe 
little  canvas  bags  and  dropping  them  through  the 
open  door. 


BULLDOG  CARNEY'S  ALIBI  83 

Carney  held  three  loops  of  the  lariat  in  his  right 
hand,  and  the  balance  in  his  left;  now  he  slipped 
from  the  rock,  darted  to  the  side  of  the  car  and 
waited. 

He  heard  a  man  say,  "That's  all!"  Then  a  voice 
that  he  knew  as  Jack  the  Wolf's  commanded,  "Face 
to  the  wall!  I've  got  your  guns,  and  if  you  move 
I'll  plug  you!" 

The  Wolf  appeared  at  the  open  door,  where  he 
fired  one  shot  as  a  signal  to  Cayuse;  there  was  the 
hiss  and  clang  of  releasing  brakes  and  gasps  from 
the  starting  engine.  At  that  instant  the  lariat  zipped 
from  a  graceful  sweep  of  Carney's  hand  to  float 
like  a  ring  of  smoke  over  the  head  of  Jack  the 
Wolf,  and  he  was  jerked  to  earth.  Half  stunned 
by  the  fall  he  was  pinned  there  as  though  a  grizzly 
had  fallen  upon  him. 

The  attack  was  so  sudden,  so  unexpected,  that  he 
was  tied  and  helpless  with  hardly  any  semblance  of 
a  fight,  where  he  lay  watching  the  tail  end  of  the 
train  slipping  off  into  the  gloomed  pass,  and  the  man 
who  had  bound  him  as  he  nimbly  gathered  up  the 
bags  of  loot. 

Carney  was  in  a  hurry;  he  wanted  to  get  away 
before  the  return  of  Cayuse.  Of  course  if  Cayuse 
came  back  too  soo:  so  much  the  worse  for  Cayuse, 
but  shooting  a  man  was  something  to  be  avoided. 

He  was  hampered  a  little  due  either  to  the  Wolf's 
rapacity,  or  the  express  messenger's  eagerness  to 
obey,  for  in  addition  to  the  twenty  thousand  dollars 
there  were  four  other  plump  bags  of  gold.  But 


84  BULLDOG  CARNEY 

Carney,  having  secured  the  lot,  hurried  to  his  horse, 
dropped  the  pack  bags  astride  the  saddle,  mounted, 
and  made  his  way  to  the  Little  Widow  mine.  He 
had  small  fear  that  the  two  men  would  think  of 
looking  in  that  direction  for  the  man  who  had  robbed 
them;  even  if  they  did  he  had  a  good  start  for  it 
would  take  time  to  untie  the  Wolf  and  get  their  one 
horse.  Also  he  had  the  Wolf's  guns. 

He  rode  into  the  mine,  dismounted,  took  the  loot 
to  a  cross-cut  that  ran  off  the  long  drift  and  dropped 
it  into  a  sump  hole  that  was  full  of  water,  sliding 
in  on  top  rock  debris.  Then  he  unsaddled  the  buck- 
skin, tied  him,  and  hurried  along  the  drift  and 
crawled  his  way  through  the  small  tunnel  back  to 
jail.  There  he  threw  himself  on  the  bunk,  and, 
chuckling,  fell  into  a  virtuous  sleep. 

He  was  wakened  at  daybreak  by  Sergeant  Black 
who  said  cheerfully,  "You're  in  luck,  Bulldog." 

"Honored,  I  should  say,  if  you  allude  to  our  as- 
sociation." 

The  Sergeant  groped  silently  through  this,  then, 
evidently  missing  the  sarcasm,  added,  "The  midnight 
was  held  up  last  night  at  the  trestle,  and  if  you'd 
been  outside  I  guess  you'd  been  pipped  as  the  angel." 

"Thanks  for  your  foresight,  friend — that  is,  if 
you  knew  it  was  coming  off.  Tell  me  how  your 
friend  worked  it." 

Sergeant  Black  told  what  Carney  already  knew 
so  well,  and  when  he  had  finished  the  latter  said: 
"Even  if  I  hadn't  this  good  alibi  nobody  would  say 
I  had  anything  to  do  with  it,  for  I  distrust  man  s» 


BULLDOG  CARNEY'S  ALIBI  85 

thoroughly  that  I  never  have  a  companion  in  any 
little  joke  I  put  over." 

"I  couldn't  do  anything  in  the  dark,"  the  Ser- 
geant resumed,  in  an  apologetic  way,  "so  I'm  going 
out  to  trail  the  robbers  now." 

He  looked  at  Carney  shiftingly,  scratched  an  ear 
with  a  forefinger,  and  then  said:  "The  express  com- 
pany has  wired  a  reward  of  a  thousand  dollars  for 
the  robbers,  and  another  thousand  for  the  recovery 
of  the  money." 

"Go  to  it,  Sergeant,"  Carney  laughed;  "get  that 
capital,  then  go  east  to  Lake  Erie  and  start  a  bean 
farm." 

Black  grinned  tolerantly.  "If  you'll  join  up,  Bull- 
dog, we  could  run  them  two  down." 

"No,  thanks;  I  like  it  here." 

"I'm  going  to  turn  you  out,  Bulldog — set  you 
free." 

"And  I'm  going  to  insist  on  a  hearing.  I'll  take 
those  stripes  off  your  arm  for  playing  the  fool." 

The  Sergeant  drew  from  his  pocket  a  telegram 
and  passed  it  to  Carney.  It  was  from  Major  Silver 
at  Golden,  and  ran: 

"Get  Carney  to  help  locate  robbers.  He  knows 
the  game.  Express  company  offers  two  thousand." 

"Where's  the  other  telegram?"  Carney  asked,  a 
twinkle  in  his  eye. 

"What  other  one?" 

"The  one  in  answer  to  yours  asking  for  instruc- 
tions over  my  arrest." 

The  Sergeant  looked  at  Carney  out  of  confused, 


86  BULLDOG  CARNEY 

astonished  eyes;  then  he  admitted:  "The  Major 
advises  we  can't  hold  you  in  B.  C.  on  the  Alberta 
case.  But  what  about  joining  in  the  hunt?  You've 
worked  with  the  police  before." 

"Twice;  because  a  woman  was  getting  the  worst 
of  it  in  each  case.  But  I'm  no  sleuth  for  the  official 
robber — he's  fair  game." 

"You  won't  take  the  trail  with  me  then,  Carney?" 

"No,  I  won't;  not  to  run  down  the  hold-up  men — 
that's  your  job.  But  you  can  tell  your  penny-in-the- 
slot  company,  that  piking  corporation  that  offers 
thousand  dollars  for  the  recovery  of  twenty  or  thirty 
thousand,  that  when  they're  ready  to  pay  five  thou- 
sand dollars'  reward  for  the  gold  I'll  see  if  I  can, 
lead  them  to  it.  Now,  my  dear  Sergeant,  if  you'll 
oblige  me  with  my  gun  I'd  like  to  saunter  over  to 
the  hotel  for  breakfast." 

"I'll  go  with  you,"  Sergeant  Black  said,  "I  haven't 
had  mine  yet." 

Jeanette  was  in  the  front  room  of  the  hotel  as 
the  two  men  entered.  Her  face  went  white  when 
she  saw  Carney  seemingly  in  the  custody  of  the 
policeman.  He  stopped  to  speak  to  her,  and  Black, 
going  through  to  the  dining  room  saw  the  Wolf  and 
Cayuse  Braun  at  a  table.  He  had  these  two  under 
suspicion,  for  the  Wolf  had  a  record  with  the 
police. 

He  closed  the  door  and,  standing  in  front  of  it, 
said:  "I'm  going  to  arrest  you  two  men  for  the 
train  robbery  last  night.  When  you  finish  your 


BULLDOG  CARNEY'S  ALIBI  87 

breakfast  I  want  you  to  come  quietly  over  to  the 
lock-up  till  this  thing  is  investigated." 

The  Wolf  laughed  derisively.  "What're  you 
doin'  here,  Sergeant — why  ain't  you  out  on  the  trail 
chasm'  Bulldog  Carney?" 

The  Sergeant  stared.  "Bulldog  Carney?"  he 
queried;  "what's  he  got  to  do  with  it?" 

"Everything.  It's  a  God's  certainty  that  he  pulled 
this  hold-up  off  when  he  escaped  last  night." 

The  Sergeant  gasped.  What  was  the  Wolf  talk- 
ing about.  He  turned,  opened  the  door  and  called, 
"Carney,  come  here  and  listen  to  Jack  Wolf  tell 
how  you  robbed  the  train !" 

At  this  the  Wolf  bent  across  the  table  and  whis- 
pered hoarsely,  "Christ!  Bulldog  has  snitched — 
he's  give  us  away!  I  thought  he'd  clear  out  when 
he  got  the  gold.  And  he  knowed  me  last  night 
when  we  clinched.  And  his  horse  was  gone  from 
the  stable  this  morning!" 

As  the  two  men  sprang  to  their  feet,  the  Ser- 
geant whirled  at  the  rasp  of  their  chairs  on  the 
floor,  and  reached  for  his  gun.  But  Cayuse's  gun 
was  out,  there  was  a  roaring  bark  in  the  walled 
room,  a  tongue  of  fire,  a  puff  of  smoke,  and  the 
Sergeant  dropped. 

As  he  fell,  from  just  behind  him  Carney's  gun 
sent  a  leaden  pellet  that  drilled  a  little  round  hole 
fair  in  the  center  of  Cayuse's  forehead,  and  he  col- 
lapsed, a  red  jet  of  blood  spurting  over  the  floor. 

In  the  turmoil  the  Wolf  slipped  through  a  door 
that  was  close  to  where  he  sat,  sped  along  the  hall 


88  BULLDOG  CARNEY 

into  the  storeroom,  and  down  to  the  mine  chamber. 

With  a  look  at  Cayuse  that  told  he  was  dead, 
Carney  dropped  his  pistol  back  into  the  holster,  and 
telling  Seth,  who  had  rushed  in,  to  hurry  for  a  doctor, 
took  the  Sergeant  in  his  arms  like  a  baby  and  carried 
him  upstairs  to  a  bed,  Jeanette  showing  the  way. 

As  they  waited  for  the  doctor  Carney  said:  "He's 
shot  through  the  shoulder;  he'll  be  all  right." 

"What's  going  to  happen  over  this,  Bulldog?" 
Jeanette  asked. 

"Cayuse  Braun  has  passed  to  the  Happy  Hunting 
Ground — he  can't  talk;  Seth,  of  course,  won't;  and 
the  Wolf  will  never  stop  running  till  he  hits  the  bor- 
der. I  had  a  dream  last  night,  Jeanette,  that  some- 
body gave  me  five  thousand  dollars  easy  money. 
If  it  comes  true,  my  dear  girl,  I'm  going  to  put  it 
in  your  name  so  Seth  can't  throw  you  down  hard 
if  he  ever  takes  a  notion  to." 

Carney's  dream  came  true  at  the  full  of  the  moon. 


Ill 

OWNERS  UP 

CLATAWA  had  put  racing  in  Walla  W^lla  in  cold 
storage. 

You  can't  have  any  kind  of  sport  with  one  indi- 
vidual, horse  or  man,  and  Clatawa  had  beaten  every- 
thing so  decisively  that  the  gamblers  sat  down  with 
blank  faces  and  asked,  "What's  the  use?" 

Horse  racing  had  been  a  civic  institution,  a  daily 
round  of  joyous  thrills — a  commendable  medium  for 
the  circulation  of  gold.  The  Nez  Perces  Indians, 
who  owned  that  garden  of  Eden,  the  Palouse  coun- 
try, and  were  rich,  would  troop  into  Walla  Walla 
long  rolls  of  twenty-dollar  gold  pieces  plugged  into 
a  snake-like  skin  till  the  thing  resembled  a  black 
sausage,  and  bet  the  coins  as  though  they  were 
nickels. 

It  was  a  lovely  town,  with  its  straggling  clap- 
boarded  buildings,  its  U.  S.  Cavalry  post,  its  wide- 
open  dance  halls  and  gambling  palaces;  it  was  a  live 
town  was  Walla  Walla,  squatting  there  in  the  center 
of  a  great  luxuriant  plain  twenty  miles  or  more  from 
the  Columbia  and  Snake  Rivers. 

Snaky  Dick  had  roped  a  big  bay  with  black  points 
that  was  lord  of  a  harem  of  wild  mares;  he  had 

89 


90  BULLDOG  CARNEY 

speed  and  stamina,  and  also  brains;  so  they  named 
him  "Clatawa,"  that  is,  "The-one-who-goes-quick." 
When  Clatawa  found  that  men  were  not  terrible 
creatures  he  chummed  in,  and  enjoyed  the  gambling, 
and  the  racing,  and  the  high  living  like  any  other 
creature  of  brains. 

He  was  about  three-quarter  warm  blood.  How 
the  mixture  nobody  knew.  Some  half-bred  mare, 
carrying  a  foal,  had,  perhaps,  escaped  from  one  of 
the  great  breeding  ranches,  such  as  the  "Scissors 
Brand  Ranch"  where  the  sires  were  thoroughbred, 
and  dropped  her  baby  in  the  herd.  And  the  colt, 
not  being  raced  to  death  as  a  two-year-old,  had  grown 
into  a  big,  upstanding  bay,  with  perfect  unblemished 
bone,  lungs  like  a  blacksmith's  bellows  and  sinews 
that  played  through  unruptured  sheaths.  His  cour- 
age, too,  had  not  been  broken  by  the  whip  and  spur 
of  pin-head  jocks.  There  was  just  one  rift  in  the 
lute,  that  dilution  of  cold  blood.  He  wasn't  a 
thoroughbred,  and  until  his  measure  was  taken, 
until  some  other  equine  looked  him  in  the  eye  as 
they  fought  it  out  stride  for  stride,  no  man  could 
just  say  what  the  cold  blood  would  do ;  it  was  so  apt 
to  quit. 

At  first  Walla  Walla  rejoiced  when  Snaky  Dick 
commenced  to  make  the  Nez  Perces  horses  look  like 
pack  mules ;  but  now  had  come  the  time  when  there 
was  no  one  to  fight  the  "champ,"  and  the  game  was 
on  the  hog,  as  Iron  Jaw  Blake  declared. 

Then  Iron  Jaw  and  Snaggle  Tooth  Boone,  and 


OWNERS  UP  91 

Death-on-the-trail  Carson  formed  themselves  into 
a  committee  of  three  to  ameliorate  the  monotony. 

They  were  a  picturesque  trio.  Carson  was  a 
sombre  individual,  architecturally  resembling  a  leaf- 
less gaunt-limbed  pine,  for  he  lacked  but  a  scant 
half  inch  of  being  seven  feet  of  bone  and  whip-cord. 

Years  before  he  had  gone  out  over  the  trail  that 
wound  among  sage  bush  and  pink-flowered  ball  cac* 
tus  up  into  the  Bitter  Root  Mountains  with  "Irish" 
Fagan.  Months  after  he  came  back  alone;  more 
sombre,  more  gaunt,  more  sparing  of  speech,  and 
had  offered  casually  the  statement  that  "Fagan  met 
death  on  the  trail."  This  laconic  epitome  of  a  gi- 
gantic event  had  crystallized  into  a  moniker  for  Car* 
son,  and  he  became  solely  "Death-on-the-trail." 

Snaggle  Tooth  Boone  had  a  wolf-like  fang  on  the 
very  doorstep  of  his  upper  jaw,  so  it  required  no 
powerful  inventive  faculty  to  rechristen  him  with  ap- 
titude. 

Blake  was  not  only  iron-jawed  physically,  but  all 
his  dealings  were  of  the  bullheaded  order;  finesse 
was  as  foreign  to  Iron  Jaw  as  caviare  to  a  Siwash. 

So  this  triumvirate  of  decorative  citizens,  with 
Iron  Jaw  as  penman,  wrote  to  Reilly  at  Portland, 
Oregon,  to  send  in  a  horse  good  enough  to  beat 
Clatawa,  and  a  jock  to  ride  him.  Iron  Jaw's  direc- 
tions were  specific,  lengthy;  going  into  detail.  He 
knew  that  a  thoroughbred,  even  a  selling  plater, 
would  be  good  enough  to  take  the  measure  of  any 
cross-bred  horse,  no  matter  how  good  the  latter  ap- 
parently was,  running  in  scrub  races.  He  also  knew 


92  BULLDOG  CARNEY 

the  value  of  weight  as  a  handicap,  and  the  Walla 
Walla  races  were  all  matches,  catch-weights  up. 
So  he  wrote  to  Reilly  to  send  him  a  tall,  slim  rideij 
who  could  pad  up  with  clothes  and  look  the  part  of 
an  able-bodied  cow  puncher. 

It  was  a  pleasing  line  of  endeavor  to  Reilly — he 
just  loved  that  sort  of  thing;  trimming  "come-ons" 
was  right  in  his  mitt.  He  fulfilled  the  commission 
to  perfection,  sending  up,  by  the  flat  river  steamer, 
the  Maid  of  Palouse,  what  appeared  to  be  an  ordi- 
nary black  ranch  cow-pony  in  charge  of  "Texas  Sam," 
a  cow  puncher.  From  Lewiston,  the  head  of  naviga- 
tion, Texas  Sam  rode  his  horse  behind  the  old  Con- 
cord coach  over  the  twenty-five  miles  of  trail  to 
Walla  Walla. 

The  endeavor  had  gone  through  with  swift 
smoothness.  Nobody  but  Iron  Jaw,  Death-on-the- 
trail,  and  Snaggle  Tooth  knew  of  the  possibilities 
that  lurked  in  the  long  chapp-legged  Texas  Jim  and 
the  thin  rakish  black  horse  that  he  called  Horned 
Toad. 

As  one  spreads  bait  as  a  decoy,  Sam  was  given 
money  to  flash,  and  instructed  in  the  art  of  fool  talk. 

Iron  Jaw  was  banker  in  this  game ;  while  Snaggle 
Tooth  ran  the  wheel  and  faro  lay-out  in  the  Del 
Monte  saloon.  So,  when  Texas  dribbled  a  thousand 
dollars  across  the  table,  "bucking  the  tiger,"  it  was 
shbw  money;  a  thousand  that  Iron  Jaw  had  passed 
him  earlier  in  the  evening,  and  which  Snaggle  Tooth 
would  pass  back  to  its  owner  in  the  morning. 

There  was  no  hurry  to  spring  the  trap.     Texas 


OWNERS  UP  93 

Sam  allowed  that  he  himself  was  an  uncurried  wild 
horse  from  the  great  desert;  that  he  was  all  wool 
and  a  yard  wide ;  that  he  could  lick  his  fighting  weight 
in  wild  cats;  and  bet  on  anything  he  fancied  till  the 
cows  came  home  with  their  tails  between  their  legs. 
And  all  the  time  he  drank:  he  would  drink  with 
anybody,  and  anybody  might  drink  with  him.  This 
was  no  piking  game,  for  the  three  students  of  get-it- 
in-big-wads  had  declared  for  a  coup  that  would  cause 
Walla  Walla  to  stand  up  on  its  hind  legs  and  howl. 

Of  course  Snaky  Dick  and  his  clique  cast  covetous 
eyes  on  the  bank  roll  that  Texas  showed  an  inkling 
of  when  he  flashed  his  gold.  That  Texas  had  a 
horse  was  the  key  to  the  whole  situation:  a  horse 
that  he  was  never  tired  of  describing  as  the  king-pin 
cow-pony  from  Kalamazoo  to  Kamschatka ;  a  spring- 
heeled  antelope  that  could  run  rings  around  any 
cayuse  that  had  ever  looked  through  a  halter. 

But  Snaky  Dick  went  slow.  Some  night  when 
Texas  was  full  of  hop  he'd  rush  him  for  a  match. 
Indeed  the  Clatawa  crowd  had  the  money  ready  to 
plunk  down  when  the  psychological  pitch  of  Sam's 
Dutch  courage  had  arrived. 

It  was  all  going  swimmingly,  both  ends  of  Walla 
Walla  being  played  against  the  middle,  so  to  speak, 
when  the  "unknown  quantity"  drifted  into  the  game. 

A  tall,  lithe  man,  with  small  placid  gray  eyes  set 
in  a  tanned  face,  rode  up  out  of  the  sage  brush 
astride  a  buckskin  horse  on  his  way  to  Walla  Walla. 
He  looked  like  a  casual  cow-puncher  riding  into  town 
with  the  laudable  purpose  of  tying  the  faro  outfit 


94  BULLDOG  CARNEY 

hoof  and  horn,  and,  incidentally,  showing  what  could 
be  done  to  a  bar  when  a  man  was  in  earnest  and  had 
the  mazuma. 

As  the  buckskin  leisurely  loped  down  the  trail- 
road  that  ran  from  the  cavalry  barracks  to  the  heart 
of  Walla  Walla,  his  rider  became  aware  of  turmoil 
in  the  suburbs.  In  front  of  a  neat  little  cottage,  the 
windows  of  which  held  flowers  partly  shrouded  by 
lace  curtains,  a  lathy  individual,  standing  beside  a 
rakish  black  horse,  was  orating  with  Bacchanalian 
vehemence.  Gathered  from  his  blasphemous  narra- 
tive he  knew  chronologically  the  past  history  of  a 
small  pretty  woman  with  peroxided  hair,  who  stood 
in  the  open  door.  He  must  have  enlarged  on  the 
sophistication  of  her  past  life,  for  the  little  lady, 
with  a  crisp  oath,  called  the  declaimer  a  liar  and  a 
seven-times  misplaced  offspring. 

The  rider  of  the  buckskin  checked  his  horse, 
threw  his  right  leg  loosely  over  the  saddle,  and  rest- 
fully  contemplated  the  exciting  film. 

The  irate  and  also  inebriated  man  knew  that  he 
had  drawn  on  his  imagination,  but  to  be  told  in 
plain  words  that  he  was  a  liar  peeved  him.  With 
an  ugly  oath  he  swung  his  quirt  and  sprang  for- 
ward, as  if  he  would  bring  its  lash  down  on  the 
decolleted  shoulders  of  the  woman. 

At  that  instant  something  that  looked  like  a  boy 
shot  through  the  door  as  though  thrust  from  a  cata- 
pult, and  landed,  head  on,  in  the  bread  basket  of  the 
cantankerous  one,  carrying  him  off  his  feet. 


OWNERS  UP  95 

The  man  on  the  buckskin  chuckled,  and  slipped 
to  the  ground. 

But  the  boy  had  shot  his  bolt,  so  to  speak;  the 
big  man  he  had  tumbled  so  neatly,  soon  turned 
him,  and,  rising,  was  about  to  drive  a  boot  into  the 
little  fellow's  rib.  I  say  about  to,  for  just  then 
certain  fingers  of  steel  twined  themselves  in  his 
red  neckerchief,  he  was  yanked  volte  face,  and  a  fist 
drove  into  his  midriff. 

Of  course  his  animosity  switched  to  the  newcomer; 
but  as  he  essayed  a  grapple  the  driving  fist  caught 
him  quite  neatly  on  the  northeast  corner  of  his  jaw. 
He  sat  down,  the  goggle  stare  in  his  eyes  suggesting 
that  he  contemplated  a  trip  to  dreamland. 

The  little  woman  now  darted  forward,  crying  in 
a  voice  whose  gladsomeness  swam  in  tears:  "Bulldog 
Carney  I  You  always  man — you  beaut  I"  She  would 
have  twined  her  arms  about  Bulldog,  but  the  placid 
gray  eyes,  so  full  of  quiet  aloofness,  checked  her. 

But  the  man's  voice  was  soft  and  gentle  as  he 
said:  "The  same  Bulldog,  Molly,  girl.  Glad  I 
happened  along." 

He  turned  to  the  quarrelsome  one  who  had  stag- 
gered to  his  feet:  "You  ride  away  before  I  get 
cross;  you  smell  like  the  corpse  of  a  dead  booze- 
fighter!" 

The  man  addressed  looked  into  the  gray  eyes 
switched  on  his  own  for  inspection;  then  he  turned, 
mounted  the  black,  and  throwing  over  his  shoulder, 
"I'll  get  you  for  this,  Mister  Butter-in!"  rode  away. 

The  other  party  to  the  rough-and-tumble,  winded, 


96  BULLDOG  CARNEY 

had  erected  his  five  feet  of  length,  and  with  a  palm 
pressed  against  his  chest  was  emiting  between 
wheezy  coughs  picturesque  words  of  ecomium  upon 
Bulldog,  not  without  derogatory  reflections  upon  the 
man  who  had  ridden  away. 

In  the  midst  of  this  vocal  cocktail  he  broke  off 
suddenly  to  exclaim  in  astonishment: 

"Holy  Gawd  I" 

Then  he  scuttled  past  Carney,  slipped  a  finger 
through  the  ring  of  the  buckskin's  snaffle  and  peered 
into  the  horse's  face  as  if  he  had  found  a  long-lost 
friend. 

Perhaps  the  buckskin  remembered  him  too,  for 
he  pressed  a  velvet,  mouse-colored  muzzle  against 
the  lad's  cheek  and  whispered  something. 

The  little  man  ran  a  hand  up  and  down  the  horse's 
canon-bones  with  the  inquisitiveness  of  a  blind  man 
reading  raised  print. 

Then  he  turned  to  Carney  who  had  been  chatting 
with  Molly — in  full  dignity  of  Walla  Walla  nomen- 
clature Molly  B'Damn — and  asked:  "Where  the 
hell  d'you  get  Waster?" 

A  fainfc  smile  twitched  the  owner's  tawny  mus- 
tache, chased  away  by  a  little  cloud  of  anger,  for  in 
that  land  of  many  horse  stealings  to  ask  a  man  how 
he  had  come  by  his  horse  savoured  of  discourtesy. 
But  it  was  only  a  little  ,  wizen-faced,  flat-chested 
friend  of  Molly  B'Damn's;  so  Carney  smiled  again, 
and  answered  by  asking: 

"Gentle-voiced  kidaloona,  explain  what  you  mean 


OWNERS  UP  97 

by  the  Waster.  That  chum  of  mine's  name  is  Pat — 
Patsy  boy,  often  enough." 

"Pat  nothin' !  nor  Percy,  nor  Willie ;  he's  just 
plain  old  Waster  that  I  won  the  Ranch  Stakes  on  in 
Butte,  four  years  ago." 

"Guess  again,  kid,"  Carney  suggested. 

"Holy  Mike!  Say,  boss,  if  you  could  think  like 
you  can  punch  you'd  be  all  right.  That's  Waster. 
Listen,  Mister  Cowboy,  while  I  tell  you  'bout  his 
friends  and  relatives.  He's  by  Gambler's  Money 
out  of  Scotch  Lassie,  whose  breedin'  runs  back  to 
Prince  Charlie:  Gambler's  Money  was  by  Counter- 
feit, he  by  Spendthrift,  and  Spendthrift's  sire  was 
imported  Australian,  whose  grandsire  was  the  Eng- 
lish horse,  Melbourne.  D'you  get  that,  sage-brush 
rider?" 

"I  hear  sounds.    Tinkle  again,  little  man." 

Molly  laughed,  her  white  teeth  and  honest  blue 
eyes  discounting  the  chemically  yellow  hair  until 
the  face  looked  good. 

The  little  man  stretched  out  an  arm,  at  the  end 
of  it  a  thin  finger  levelled  at  the  buckskin's  head: 

"Have  you  ever  took  notice  of  them  lop  ears?" 

"Once — which  was  continuous." 

"And  you  thought  there  was  a  jackass  strain  in 
him,  eh?" 

"Pat  looked  good  to  me  all  the  time,  ears  and 
all." 

"Well,  them  sloppy  listeners  are  a  throw-back  to 
Melbourne,  he  was  like  that.  I've  read  he  was  a 
mean-lookin*  cuss,  with  weak  knees;  but  he  was  all 


98  BULLDOG  CARNEY 

horse :  and  ain't  Waster  got  bad  knees?  And  don't 
he  get  that  buckskin  from  Spendthrift  who  was  a 
chestnut,  same's  his  dad,  Australian?"  This  seemed 
a  direct  query  for  he  broke  off  to  cough. 

"Go  on,  lad " 

"Excuse  me,  sorry" — Molly  was  speaking — "this 
is  Billy  MacKay.  My  old  school  chum,  Bessie,  his 
sister,  wished  him  on  me  a  month  ago  to  see  what 
God's  country  could  do  for  that  busted  chest." 

The  little  man  was  impatient  over  the  switch  to 
himself — the  horse  was  the  thing. 

"If  it  wasn't  for  them  dicky  forelegs — Gawd! 
what  a  horse  Waster'd  been.  And  if  his  owner, 
Leatherhead  Mike  Doyle,  had  kept  the  weight  offen 
him  he'd  Ve  stood  up  anyway,  for  he  was  the  truest 
thing.  Say,  Bulldog, — don't  mind  me,  I  like  that 
name,  it  talks  good, — Waster  didn't  need  no  blinkers 
he  didn't  need  no  spurs;  he  didn't  need  no  whip — I'd 
as  lief  hit  a  child  with  the  bud  as  hit  him.  He'd 
just  break  his  hear  tryin'.  Waster  was  Leather- 
head's  meal  ticket,  dicky  knees  and  all,  till  he  threw 
a  splint.  It  was  the  weight  that  broke  him  down; 
a  hundred  and  thirty-six  pounds  the  handicapper 
give  him  in  the  Gold  Range  Stakes  at  a  mile  and  a 
quarter;  at  that  he  was  leadin'  into  the  stretch  and 
finished,  fightin',  on  three  legs.  He  was  beat,  of 
course;  and  Leatherhead  was  broke,  and  I  never 
see  Waster  again.  A  trombone  player  in  a  beer 
garden  would  have  known  the  little  cuss  with  them 
hot-jointed  knees  couldn't  pack  weight,  and  would 
Ve  scratched  him." 


OWNERS  UP  99 

Carney  put  a  hand  caressingly  on  Jockey  Mackay's 
shoulder,  saying:  "You  stand  pat  with  me,  kid — your 
heart  is  about  human,  I  guess.  What  was  that  hos- 
tile person's  game?" 

Molly  explained  with  a  certain  amount  of  as- 
perity: 

"He  comes  here  to-day,  Bulldog — Well,  you 
know " 

Carney  nodded  placidly. 

"He'd  seen  me  down  in  the  Del  Monte  joint, 
and  thought — well,  he  was  filled  up  on  Chinese 
rum.  He  wasn't  none  too  much  like  a  man  in  any- 
thing he  said  or  done,  but  I  was  standin'  for  him 
so  long  as  he  don't  get  plumb  Injun." 

"Injun?  Cripes!  An  Injun's  a  drugstore  gent 
compared  to  that  stiff,  Slimy  Red,"  Billy  objected. 

"Yes,  that's  what  started  it,  Bulldog, — Billy  knew 
him." 

"Knew  him — huh !  Slimy  Red  was  the  crookedest 
rider  that  ever  throwed  a  leg  over  a  horse.  He  used 
to  give  his  own  father  the  wrong  steer  and  laugh 
when  the  old  man's  money  was  burnt  up  on  a  horse 
that  finished  in  the  ruck." 

"He  comes  in  here  palmin'  off  the  moniker  of 
Texas  Sam,  a  big  ranch  guy  that  sees  blood  on  the 
moon  when  he's  out  for  a  time,"  Molly  helped  with. 

"I  didn't  know  him  at  first,"  the  little  man  ad- 
mitted, "his  face  bein'  a  garden  of  black  alfalfa, 
till  I  sees  that  the  crop  is  red  for  half  an  inch  above 
the  surface  where  it  had  pushed  through  the  dye. 
Then  he  says,  "I'll  bet  my  left  eye  agin'  your  big 


100  BULLDOG  CARNEY 

toe,'  and  I'm  on,  for  that's  a  great  sayin'  with  Slimy 
Red  Smith — he  was  Slimy  Red  hisself .  And  politely, 
not  givin'  the  game  away,  but  callin'  him  'Texas,' 
I  suggests  that  me  and  Molly  is  goin'  to  sing  hymns 
for  a  bit,  and  that  he'd  best  push  on." 

"Soon's    Billy    warbles,    'Good-bye,    stranger,' ' 
Molly  laughed,  "this  Texas  person  goes  up  in  the 
air.    Well,  you  see  the  finish,  Bulldog." 

The  little  man  had  wrestled  a  coughing  spell  into 
subjection  and  with  apparent  inconsistency  asked, 
"Did  you  ever  hear  of  it  rainin'  bullfrogs,  Mr.  Car- 
ney?" 

Carney  nodded,  a  suspicion  flashing  upon  him  that 
the  weak  chest  was  twin  brother  to  a  weak  brain  in 
Billy  the  Jock. 

"Well,  it's  been  rainin'  discard  race-horses  about 
Walla  Walla." 

"Much  of  a  storm?" 

"They're  comin'  kind  of  thick.  There's  yours, 
Waster,  and  Slimy  Red  has  got  Ding  Dong;  he's 
out  of  Weddin'  Bells  by  Tambourine." 

"Are  you  in  a  hurry,  Bulldog?"  Molly  asked, 
fancying  that  Carney's  well-known  courtesy  was  per- 
haps the  father  of  his  apparent  interest. 

"I  was,  Molly,  till  I  saw  you,"  he  answered  gra- 
ciously, a  gentle  smile  lighting  up  his  stern  features. 

"Oh,  you  gentleman  knight  of  the  road — always 
the  silver-tongued  Bulldog.  There's  a  bottle  in- 
side with  a  gold  necktie  on  it,  waitin'  for  a  real 
man  to  pull  the  cork.  Come  on,  kid  Billy." 

The  boy  looked  at  Carney,  and  the  latter  said; 


OWNERS  UP  101 

"It's  been  a  full  moon  since  I  pattered  with  any- 
body about  anything  but  fat  pork  and  sundown. 
We'll  accept  the  little  lady's  invitation." 

"I  can  give  Waster  four  quarts  of  oats,  Mr.  Car- 
ney; I've  been  ridin'  in  the  way  of  a  cure." 

Carney  laughed.  "You're  a  sure  little  bit  of  all 
right,  kid;  the  horse  first  when  it  comes  to  grub — 
that's  me;  but  I'll  feed  Pat  when  he's  bedded  for 
the  night." 

Inside  the  cottage  Molly  and  Bulldog  jaunted  back 
over  the  life  trail  upon  which  they  had  met  at  dif- 
ferent times  and  in  divers  places. 

But  Jockey  Mackay  had  been  thrown  back  into 
his  life's  environment  at  sight  of  Waster.  He  was 
as  full  of  racing  as  the  wine  bottle  was  full  of  bub- 
bles; like  the  wine  he  effervesced. 

"You  been  here  in  Walla  Walla  before?"  he  asked 
Carney,  breaking  in  on  the  memory  of  a  funny  some- 
thing that  had  happened  when  Molly  and  Bulldog 
were  both  in  Denver. 

"Some  time  since,"  Carney  replied. 

"D'you  know  about  Clatawa?" 

"Is  it  a  mine  or  a  cocktail,  Billy?" 

"Clatawa's  a  horse." 

"I  might  have  known,"  Carney  murmured  resign- 
edly. 

Then  the  little  man  narrated  of  Clatawa,  and  the 
fatuous  belief  Walla  Walla  held  that  a  horse  with 
cold  blood  in  his  veins  could  gallop  fast  enough  to 
keep  himself  warm.  He  waxed  indignant  over  this, 
declaring  that  boneheads  that  held  such  crazy  ideas 


102  BULLDOG  CARNEY 

ought  to  be  bled  white,  that  is  in  a  monetary  way. 

Carney,  being  a  Chevalier  d'Industrie,  had  a  keen 
nose  for  oblique  enterprises,  but  up  to  the  present 
he  had  enjoyed  the  little  man's  chatter  simply  be- 
cause he  loved  horses  himself;  but  at  this,  the  Cla- 
tawa  disease,  lie  pricked  his  ears. 

"What  is  your  unsavory  acquaintance,  Slimy  Red, 
doing  here  with  Ding  Dong?"  he  asked. 

A  cunning  smile  twisted  the  lad's  bluish  lips  as 
he  lighted  a  cigarette. 

"Slimy  Red  is  padded,"  he  vouchsafed  after  a 
puff  at  the  cigarette. 

"Padded!"  Molly  exclaimed,  her  blue  eyes  round- 
ing. 

"Sure  thing.  That  herrin'  gut  can  ride  at  a  hun- 
dred and  twenty  pounds.  He's  a  steeplechase  jock, 
.gener'ly,  though  he's  good  on  the  flat,  too.  He's 
got  a  couple  of  sweaters  on  under  that  corduroy 
jacket  to  make  him  look  big." 

Carney  laughed.  "That  explains  something. 
When  I  pushed  my  fist  against  his  stomach  I  thought 
It  had  gone  clean  through — it  sank  to  the  wrist;  it 
was  just  as  though  I  had  punched  a  bag  of  feathers." 

"But  the  upper  cut  was  all  right,  Mr.  Carney;  it 
was  a  lallapaloosa." 

"Why  all  the  clothes?"  Molly  asked. 

"I've  been  dopin'  it  out,"  the  boy  answered.  "It's 
all  match  races  here,  catch  weights ;  there  ain't  one 
of  them  could  ride  a  flat  car  without  givin'  it  the 
slows,  but  they  know  what  weight  is  in  a  race; 
they  know  you  can  pile  enough  on  to  bring  a  cart 


OWNERS  UP  103 

horse  and  a  winner  of  the  Brooklyn  Handicap  to- 
gether." 

"I  see,"  Carney  said  contemplatively;  "Slimy  Red, 
if  he  makes  a  match,  figures  to  get  a  big  pull  in  the 
weights." 

"Sure  thing,  Mike ;  Walla  Walla  will  bet  the  fam- 
ily plate  on  Clatawa ;  they'll  go  down  hook,  line,  and 
sinker,  and  then  some.  They'll  fall  for  the  clothes 
and  think  Slimy  weighs  a  hundred  and  seventy. 
D'you  get  it?" 

"Fancy  I  do,"  Carney  chuckled.  "The  avaricious 
Mister  Red  is  probably  here  on  a  missionary  ven- 
ture ;  he  aims  to  separate  these  godless  ones  from  the 
root  of  evil  through  having  a  trained  thoroughbred, 
and  an  ample  pull  in  the  weight." 

"Now  you're  talkin',"  Jockey  Mackay  declared. 
Then  he  relapsed  into  a  meditative  silence,  sipping 
his  wine  as  he  correlated  several  possibilities  sug- 
gested by  the  rainfall  of  racing  horses  in  Walla 
Walla. 

Carney  and  Molly  drifted  into  desultory  talk 
again. 

After  a  time  Billy  spoke. 

"It  ain't  on  the  cards  that  a  lot  of  money  is  comin' 
to  Slimy  Red — he  don't  deserve  it;  he  ought  to  be 
trimmed  hisself." 

"He  sure  ought,"  Molly  corroborated. 

"Hell!"  the  little  man  exclaimed;  "nobody  could 
never  trim  Red,  'cause  he  never  had  nothin'.  I 
got  it!  Somebody  in  Walla  Walla  is  the  angel;  and 


104  BULLDOG  CARNEY 

Red'll  get  a  rakeoff.    He  don't  own  Ding  Dong;  he 
couldn't  own  a  lead  pad;  booze  gets  his." 

"Billy,"  Molly's  face  went  serious;  "I  can  guess 
it  in  once — Iron  Jaw!  Oh,  gee!  I've  been  blind. 
Iron  Jaw,  and  Snaggle  Tooth,  and  Death-on-the- 
trail  ain't  men  to  cotton  to  a  coot  like  Slimy  Red; 
they're  gamblers,  and  don't  stand  for  anything  that 
ain't  a  man,  only  just  while  they  take  his  roll. 
They've  been  nursin'  this  four-flusher.  It's  been, 
'Hello,  Texas!'  and  'Have  a  drink,  Texas.'  I've 
got  it." 

"Fancy  you  have,  Molly,"  Bulldog  submitted. 

"Gawd!  that's  the  combination,"  Billy  declared. 
"I  was  right." 

"And  Iron  Jaw  has  got  a  down  on  Snaky  Dick 
that  owns  Clatawa  over  some  bad  splits  in  bets," 
Molly  added. 

"The  old  game,"  Carney  laughed.  "When  thieves  - 
fall  out  honest  men  win  a  bet.  It  would  appear 
from  the  evidence  that  Iron  Jaw  Blake — I  know  his 
method  of  old — has  sent  out  and  got  some  one  to 
ship  in  a  horse  and  rider  to  trim  Clatawa,  and  turn 
an  honest  penny." 

"You're  gettin'  warm,  Bulldog,  as  we  used  to  say 
in  that  child's  game,"  Molly  declared.  "I  know  the 
pippin ;  one  Reilly,  at  Portland.  I  heard  Iron  Jaw 
and  this  Texas  talkin'  about  him." 

Carney  turned  toward  the  little  man.  "What 
are  we  going  to  do  about  it,  Billy— do  we  draw 
cards?" 

Billy  sprang  from  his  chair,  and  paced  the  floor 


OWNERS  UP  105 

excitedly.  "Holy  Mike !  there  never  was  such  a 
chance.  Waster  can  trim  Ding  Dong  to  a  certainty 
at  a  mile  and  a  quarter.  See,  Bulldog,  that's  his  dis- 
tance; he's  a  stayer  from  Stayville;  but  he  can't  pack 
weight — don't  forget  that.  If  you  rode  him — let's 
see " 

The  little  man  stood  back  and  eyed  critically  the 
tall  package  of  bone  and  muscle,  that  while  it  sug- 
gested no  surplus  flesh,  would  weigh  well. 

"You're  a  hundred  and  seventy-five  pounds,  and 
you  ride  in  one  of  'em  rockin'  chairs  that'll  tip  the 
beam  at  forty  pounds.  What  chance?  Slimy  '11 
have  a  five-pound  saddle;  he  could  weigh  in,  saddle 
and  all,  a  hundred  and  twenty-five.  You'd  be  takin' 
on  a  handicap  of  ninety  pounds.  What  chance  ?" 

"I  might  get  an  Indian  boy,"  Carney  suggested. 

"You  might  get  a  doll  or  a  pet  monkey,"  Billy 
sneered.  "What  chance?" 

"And  they  all  work  for  Iron  Jaw,"  Molly  advised; 
"they'd  blow;  he'd  bribe  them  to  pull  the  horse." 

"What  chance?"  Billy  repeated  with  the  mournful 
persistency  of  a  parrot.  "Guess  I'll  go  out  and 
tell  Waster  to  forget  he's  a  gentleman  and  go  on 
pluggin'  among  the  sage  brush  as  a  cow-pony." 

Carney  rose  when  Billy  had  gone,  saying,  "Fancy 
I'll  drift  on  to  the  rest  joint,  Molly.  I  rather  want 
to  hold  converse  with  a  certain  man  while  the 
seeing's  good,  if  he's  about." 

"Good-bye,  Bulldog,"  Molly  answered,  and  her 
blue  eyes  followed  the  figure  that  slipped  so  grace- 
fully through  the  door,  their  depths  holding  a  look 


106  BULLDOG  CARNEY 

that  was  beautiful  in  its  honest  admiration.  "God  I" 
she  whispered;  "why  do  women  like  him — gee!" 

Billy  was  tickling  a  lop  ear  on  the  buckskin. 

"Mr.  Carney,"  he  said  in  a  low  voice,  one  eye 
on  the  cabin  door,  "you  heard  what  Molly  said 
about  Bessie  wishin'  me  on  her,  didn't  you?" 

"Uh-huh!" 

"Let  me  give  you  the  straight  info.  Molly  sent 
the  money  to  Bessie  to  bring  me  here ;  we  was  both 
broke.  Then  I  found  out  Bessie  had  been  gettin' 
it  for  a  year  from  her,  'cause  I  was  sick  and  couldn't 
ride.  I  hadn't  saved  none,  thinkin'  I'd  got  Rocke- 
feller skinned  to  death  as  a  money-getter.  It  was 
the  wastin'  to  make  weight  that  got  me.  I  don't 
have  to  sweat  off  flesh  now,"  he  added  pathetically; 
"I'm  a  hundred  and  two." 

"That's  Molly  Bur-dan"  (her  right  name)  "all 
over — I  know  her.  But  don't  worry  kid.  I  haven't 
got  anybody  to  look  after,  and  having  money  and 
no  use  for  it  makes  me  lonesome.  You  give  me 
Bessie's  address,  and  don't  tout  off  Molly  that  you're 
doing  it." 

"I  can  get  the  money  myself,  Mr.  Carney — you 
just  listen  now.  I  didn't  spring  it  inside  'cause 
Molly  'd  get  hot  under  the  collar;  she'd  say  that 
if  I  rode  in  a  race  I'd  bust  a  lung.  Gee!  ridin' 
to  me  is  just  like  goin'  by-bye  in  a  hammock;  it  'd 
do  me  good." 

Carney  put  a  hand  gently  on  the  boy's  shoulder, 
saying:  "The  size  of  the  package  doesn't  mean 


OWNERS  UP  107 

much  when  it  comes  to  being  a  man,  does  it,  kid? 
Spring  it;  get  it  off  your  chest." 

Billy  made  a  horseshoe  in  the  sand  with  the  toe 
of  his  boot  meditatively;  then  said: 

"Slimy  Red,  of  course,  will  be  lookin'  for  a  match 
for  Ding  Dong.  Most  of  the  races  here  is  sprints, 
the  old  Texas  game  of  half-a-mile,  and  weight  don't 
cut  much  ice  that  distance.  He'll  make  it  for  a 
mile,  or  a  mile-and-a-quarter,  'cause  Ding  Dong 
could  stay  that  distance  pretty  well  himself.  If  you 
was  to  match  Waster  against  the  black,  and  let  me 
ride  him,  I'd  bring  home  the  bacon.  He's  a  fourteen 
pound  better  horse  than  Ding  Dong  ever  was;  a 
handicapper  would  separate  them  that  much  on  their 
form.  Gee !  I  forgot  somethin',"  and  Billy,  a 
shame-faced  look  in  his  eyes,  gazed  helplessly  at 
Bulldog. 

"What  was  it  dropped  out  of  your  think-pan, 
kid?" 

"The  roll.  I've  been  makin'  a  noise  like  a  man 
with  a  bank  behind  him.  A  match  ain't  like  where 
a  feller  can  go  into  the  bettin'  ring  if  he  knows 
a  couple  of  hundred-to-one  chances  and  parley  a 
shoe-string  into  a  block  of  city  houses;  a  match  is 
even  money,  just  about.  And  to  win  a  big  stake 
you've  got  to  have  the  long  green." 

"How  much,  Billy?" 

"Well,  the  Iron  Jaw  bunch,  bein'  whisky  men  and 
gamblers,  naturally  would  stand  to  lose  twenty  thou- 
sand, at  least." 


108  BULLDOG  CARNEY 

"I  could  manage  it  in  a  couple  of  days,  Billy,  by 
keeping  the  wires  hot." 

"Before  I  forget  it,  Mr.  Carney,  if  you  do  buck 
this  crowd  make  it  catch  weights.  Slimy  Red  don't 
own  a  hair  in  Ding  Dong's  tail,  of  course,  but  he'll 
have  a  bill  of  sale  right  enough  showin'  he's  the 
owner,  and  as  he  can  ride  light  they'll  word  it, 
'owners  up'." 

Carney  was  thinking  fast,  and  a  glint  of  light 
shot  athwart  his  placid  gray  eyes. 

"Happy  thought,  Kid;  we'll  string  with  them  on 
that;  we'll  make  it  owners  up." 

"I  said  catch  weights,"   Billy  snapped  irritably. 

Carney  answered  with  only  a  quizzical  smile,  and 
the  boy,  turning,  walked  around  the  horse  eyeing 
him  from  every  angle.  He  lifted  first  one  foot 
and  then  the  others,  examining  them  critically,  press- 
ing a  thumb  into  the  frogs.  He  pinched  with  thumb 
and  forefinger  the  tendons  of  both  forelegs;  he 
squeezed  the  horse's  windpipe  till  the  latter  coughed ; 
then  he  said: 

"Please,  Mr.  Carney,  mount  and  give  him  half  a 
furlong  at  top  speed,  finishin'  up  here.  Make  him 
break  as  quick  as  you  can  till  I  see  if  he's  got  the 
slows." 

As  obedient  as  a  servant  Bulldog  swung  to  the 
saddle,  centered  the  buckskin  down  the  road, 
wheeled,  brought  the  horse  to  a  standstill,  and  then, 
with  a  shake  of  the  rein  and  a  cry  of  encourage- 
ment,  came  tearing  back,  the  pound  of  the  horse's 


OWNERS  UP  109 

hoofs  on  the  turf  palpitating  the  air  like  the  roll 
of  a  kettle-drum. 

"Great  1"  the  boy  commented  when  Carney,  hav- 
ing gently  eased  the  horse  down,  returned.  "He's 
the  same  old  Waster;  he  flattens  out  in  that  stride 
of  his  till  he  looks  like  a  pony.  His  flanks  ain't 
pumpin'  none.  He'll  do;  he's  had  lots  of  work — 
he's  in  better  condition  than  Ding  Dong,  'cause 
Slimy  Red's  been  puttin'  in  most  of  his  trainin' 
time  at  the  bar.  I  got  a  three-pound  saddle  in  my 
trunk  that  I  won  the  'Kenner  Stakes'  at  Saratoga  on. 
Slimy  Red  will  be  givin'  me  about  ten  pounds  if  you 
make  the  match  catch  weights ;  it'll  be  a  cinch — like 
gettin'  money  from  home.  But  don't  tell  Molly." 

"We'll  split  fifty-fifty,"  Carney  said. 

"Nothin'  doin',  Mister  Mug;  you  cop  the  coin  for 
yourself — how  much  are  you  goin'  to  bet?" 

"Five  or  ten  thousand." 

"Well,  you  give  me  ten  per  cent  of  the  five  thou- 
sand— five  hundred  bucks,  if  we  win.  That'll  square 
Molly's  bill  for  bringin'  me  up  here." 

"Come  inside,  kid,"  Carney  said;  "I  want  to  write 
out  something." 

Inside  Carney  said,  "Molly,  I'm  going  to  give  Pat 
to  Billy  for  a  riding  horse " 

"What?" 

But  Billy's  gasp  of  astonishment  was  choked  by 
a  frowning  wink  of  one  of  Bulldog's  gray  eyes. 

"Pat's  getting  a  little  old  for  the  hard  knocks 
I  have  to  give  a  horse,"  Carney  resumed;  "that's 
partly  what  I  came  to  Walla  Walla  for,  to  get  a 


110  BULLDOG  CARNEY 

young  horse.  Let  me  have  a  sheet  of  paper  and  a 
pen;  it  doesn't  do  for  a  man  to  own  a  horse  in 
this  country  without  handy  evidence  as  how  he  came 
by  him;  and  though  this  is  a  gift  I'm  going  to  make 
it  out  in  the  form  of  a  bill  of  sale." 

Carney  drew  up  a  simple  bill  of  sale,  stating,  that 
for  one  dollar,  paid  in  hand,  he  transferred  his  buck- 
skin horse  "Pat"  to  William  Mackay.  Molly  signed 
it  as  witness. 

"I'll  have  to  keep  Pat  for  a  day  or  two  till  I  get 
a  new  pony."  Bulldog  declared;  "also  rather  think 
I'll  leave  this  bill  of  sale  with  a  friend  in  town  for 
safe  keeping,  Billy  might  lose  it,"  and  a  wink  closed 
one  of  the  gray  eyes  that  were  turned  on  the  boy's 
face. 

As  Carney  sat  the  buckskin  outside,  he  whispered, 
"Do  you  get  it,  Billy — owners  up?" 

"Gee!     I  get  you." 

The  little  man  had  been  mystified. 

"Don't  be  in  a  hurry  over  the  race,"  he  advised; 
"make  it  for  one  week  away.  That'll  give  me  a 
chance  to  give  Waster  a  few  lessons  in  breakin'  to 
bring  him  back  to  the  old  days.  I'll  put  a  heavy 
blanket  about  his  neck  for  a  gallop  or  two  and 
sweat  some  of  the  fat  off  his  pipes.  I  can  get  a  set 
of  racin'  plates  made  for  him,  too,  for  a  pound 
off  his  feet  is  four  pounds  off  his  back.  We'll  give 
him  all  the  fine  touches,  Mr.  Carney,  and  Waster 
'11  do  his  part." 

The  little  man  watched  the  buckskin  lope  down 


OWNERS  UP  111 

toward  Walla  Walla,  then  he  turned  in  to  the  cot- 
tage where  he  was  greeted  by  Molly's : 

"Ain't  Bulldog  some  man,  Billy?" 

"Will  you  tell  me  something,  Molly?"  the  boy 
asked  hesitatingly. 

"Shoot,"  she  commanded^ 

"Is  he — was  he — the  man — Bessie  told  me  some- 
thing?" 

"There  ain't  no  woman  on  God's  footstool,  Billy, 
can  say  Bulldog  Carney  was  the  man  that  fell  down. 
That's  why  we  all  like  him.  There  ain't  a  woman 
on  the  Gold  Coast  that  ever  lamped  Bulldog  that 
wouldn't  stake  him  if  she  had  to  put  her  sparklers 
in  hock.  And  there  ain't  a  man  that  knows  him 
that'll  try  to  put  one  over — 'tain't  healthy.  He's 
got  a  temper  as  sweet  as  a  bull  pup's,  but  he's 
lightnin'  when  he  starts.  He  don't  cotton  to  no  girl, 
'cause  he  was  once  engaged  to  one  of  the  sweetest 
you  ever  see,  Billy." 

"Did  she  die,  Molly?" 

"The  other  man  did!  And  nothin'  was  done  to 
Bulldog  'cause  it  was  comin'  to  the  hound." 

Carney  rode  on  till  he  came  to  the  Mountain 
House.  Here  he  was  at  home  for  the  proprietor 
was  an  old  Gold  Range  friend. 

First  he  saw  that  the  buckskin  had  a  worthy  sup- 
per, then  he  ate  his  own. 

When  it  had  grown  dark  and  the  gleaming  lights 
of  the  Del  Monte  Saloon  were  throwing  their  radi- 
ancy out  into  the  street,  he  put  the  bridle  on  his 


BULLDOG  CARNEY 

buckskin  and  rode  to  the  house  of  "Teddy  the 
Leaper,"  who  was  Sheriff  of  Shoshone  County. 

The  sheriff  welcomed  Carney  with  a  differential 
friendship  that  showed  they  stood  well  together  as 
man  to  man;  for  though  Bulldog's  reputation  varied 
in  different  places,  arid  with  different  people,  it 
stood  strongest  with  those  who  had  known  him  long- 
est, and  who,  like  most  men  of  the  West,  were  apt 
to  judge  men  from  their  own  experience. 

Teddy  the  Leaper  admired  Bulldog  Carney  the 
man;  he  would  have  staked  his  life  on  anything 
Carney  told  him.  Officially,  as  sheriff,  the  County 
of  Shoshone  was  his  bailiwick,  and  the  County  of 
Shoshone  held  nothing  on  its  records  against  Car- 
ney. "Always  a  gentleman,"  was  Teddy's  summing 
up  of  Bulldog  Carney. 

Carney  drew  an  envelope  from  his  pocket,  say- 
ing: "Will  you  take  care  of  this  for  me,  Sheriff? 
Inside  is  a  bill  of  sale  of  my  horse." 

"What,  Bulldog— the  buckskin?"  Teddy's  eyes 
searched  the  speaker's  face;  it  was  unbelievable.  A 
light  dawned  upon  the  sheriff ;  Bulldog  had  put  many 
a  practical  joke  over — he  was  kidding.  Teddy 
laughed. 

"Bulldog,"  he  said,  "I've  heard  that  you  was  Eng- 
lish, a  son  of  one  of  them  bloated  lords,  but  faith 
it's  Irish  you  are.  You've  as  much  humor  as  you've 
nerve — you're  Irish." 

"There's  also  a  note  in  that  envelope" — Carney 
ignored  the  chaff— "that  directs  you  to  pay  over  to  a 
little  lad  that's  up  against  it  out  at  Molly's  place, 


OWNERS  UP  113 

any  money  that  might  happen  to  be  in  your  hands 
if  I  suddenly — well,  if  I  didn't  need  it — see?" 

'Til  do  that,  Bulldog." 

"Think  you'll  be  at  the  Del  Monte  to-night, 
Sheriff?"  Carney  asked  casually. 

Teddy's  Irish  eyes  flashed  a  quizzical  look  on  the 
speaker;  then  he  answered  diplomatically:  "There 
ain't  no  call  why  I  got  to  be  there — lest  I'm  sent  for, 
and  I  ain't  as  spry  gettin'  around  as  I  was  when  I 
made  that  record  of  forty-six  feet  for  the  hop-step- 
and-jump.  If  you've  got  anything  to  settle,  go 
ahead." 

Carney  rippled  one  of  his  low  musical  laughs: 
"I'd  like  to  line  you  up  at  the  bar,  Sheriff,  for  a 
thimbleful  of  poison." 

Teddy's  eyes  again  sought  the  speaker's  mental 
pockets,  but  the  placid  face  showed  no  warrant  for 
expected  trouble.  The  Sheriff  coughed,  then  ven- 
tured : 

"If  you're  goin'  to  stack  up  agin  odds,  Bulldog, 
I'll  dress  for  the  occasion;  1^  don't  gener'ly  go  'round 
hostile  draped." 

Again  Carney  laughed.  "You  might  bring  a 
roomy  pocket,  Sheriff;  it  might  so  turn  out  that  I'd 
like  you  to  hold  a  few  eagle  birds  till  such  times 
as  they're  right  and  proper  the  property  of  an- 
other man  or  myself.  Does  that  put  any  kink  in 
your  code?" 

"Not  when  I  act  for  you,  Bulldog;  'cause  it'll  be 
on  the  level:  I'll  be  there." 

Next  Carney  rode  to  the  Del  Monte;  and  hitch- 


BULLDOG  CARNEY 

ing  the  buckskin  to  a  post,  he  adjusted  his  belt  till 
the  butt  of  his  gun  lay  true  to  the  drop  of  his  hand. 

As  he  entered  the  saloon  slowly,  his  gray  eyes 
flashed  over  the  bar  and  a  group  of  men  on  the 
right  of  the  gaming  tables,  for  there  was  one  man 
perhaps  in  Walla  Walla  he  wanted  to  see  before 
the  other  saw  him.  It  wasn't  Slimy  Red — it  was 
a  tougher  man. 

Iron  Jaw  was  leaning  against  the  bar  talking  to 
Death-on-the-trail,  and  behind  the  bar  Snaggle  Tooth 
Boone  stood  listening  to  the  conversation. 

As  Carney  entered  a  quick  look  of  apprehension 
showed  for  an  instant  in  Iron  Jaw's  heavy-browned 
eyes;  then  a  smile  of  greeting  curled  his  coarse  lips. 
He  held  out  a  hand,  saying:  "Glad  to  see  you,  Old 
Tinier.  You  seem  conditioned.  Know  Carson?" 

"Yes." 

Carney  shook  hands  with  the  two  men,  and 
reached  across  to  clasp  Boone's  paw,  adding: 
"We'll  sample  the  goods,  Snaggle  Tooth." 

Boone  winced  at  the  appellation,  for  Carney  did 
not  smile;  there  was  even  the  suspicion  of  a  sneer 
on  the  lean  face. 

"How  is  Walla  Walla?"  Carney  queried,  as  the 
four  glasses  were  held  toward  each  other  in  salute. 
"Racing  relieved  by  a  little  gun  argument  once  in  a 
while,  I  suppose.  Chief  Joseph  threatening  to  let 
his  Nez  Perces  loose  on  you?" 

"Racin'  is  on  the  hog,"  Iron  Jaw  growled. 
"There's  a  bum  over  yonder  pikin'  agin  the  Wheel 
that's  been  stung  by  the  ra.'in'  bug,  but  when  he 


OWNERS  UP  115 

calls  for  a  show-down  some  of  'em  will  trim  him. 
Hear  that?" 

Iron  Jaw  held  up  a  thumb,  and  they  could  hear  a 
thin  strident  voice  babbling: 

uWalla  Walla's  a  nursery  for  tin  horn  sports. 
There  ain't  a  man  here  got  anythin'  but  a  goose 
liver  pumpin'  his  system,  and  a  length  of  rubber 
hose  up  his  back  holdin'  his  ribs." 

Somebody  objected;  and  the  voice,  that  Carney 
recognized  as  Texas  Sam's  snarled: 

"Five  birds  of  liberty!  You  call  that  bettin' — 
a  hundred  iron  men?" 

"Want  to  see  him?"  Iron  Jaw  queried.  "I  can't 
place  him.  Texas  Sam  he  comes  here  as;  seems 
to  be  well  fixed;  but  he's  a  booze  fighter.  I  guess 
that's  what  gives  him  dreams." 

Quiescently  Bulldog  followed  the  lead  of  Iron 
Jaw  and  Death-on-the-trail  across  the  room  where, 
with  his  back  to  the  door,  at  a  roulette  table  sat 
Texas  Sam.  He  was  winning;  three  stacks  of  chips 
rose  to  a  toppling  height  at  his  right  hand. 

Carney  noticed  from  the  color  that  they  were  five 
dollar  chips.  Knowing  from  Molly  that  Texas  was 
a  stool  pigeon  he  understood  the  philosophy  of  the 
high-priced  counters.  It  was  easier  to  keep  tally 
on  what  he  drew  and  what  he  turned  back  in  after 
the  game,  for  the  losings  and  the  winnings  were  all 
a  bluff,  and  the  money  furnished  him  for  the  show 
had  to  be  accounted  for.  Iron  Jaw  trusted  no  man. 

"The  game's  like  roundin'  up  a  bunch  of  cows 


116  BULLDOG  CARNEY 

heavy  in  calf,"  Texas  was  saying  as  they  approached; 
"it's  too  damn  slow.  I  want  action." 

He  placed  five  chips  on  the  thirteen  as  the  croupier 
spun  the  wheel,  bleating: 

"Hoodoo  thirteen's  my  lucky  number.  I  was 
whelped  on  Friday  the  thirteenth,  at  thirteen 
o'clock — as  you  old  leatherheads  make  it,  one  A.M." 

The  little  ivory  ball  skipped  and  hopped  as  it  slid 
down  from  the  smooth  plane  of  the  wheel  to  the 
number  chambers.  It  almost  settled  into  one,  and 
then,  as  if  agitated  by  some  unseen  devil  of  per- 
versity, rolled  over  the  thin  wall  and  lay,  like  a 
bird's  egg,  in  a  black  nest  that  was  number  "13." 

"By  a  nose !"  Texas  exulted.     "Do  I  win,  Judge  ?" 

The  croupier's  face  was  as  expressionless  as  the 
silver  veil  of  Mahmoud  as  he  built  into  pillars  over 
eight  hundred  dollars  in  chips,  and  shoved  them 
across  the  board  to  Texas. 

The  noisy  one  swept  them  to  the  side  of  the 
table,  and  called  for  a  drink. 

It  was  a  curiously  diversified  interest  that  cen- 
tered on  this  play  of  the  uncouth  Texas.  Iron  Jaw 
and  Death-on-the-trail  viewed  it  with  apathetic  in- 
terest, much  as  a  trainer  might  watch  a  pupil  punch- 
ing the  bag — it  didn't  mean  anything. 

Carney,  too,  knowing  its  farcical  value,  looked 
on,  waiting  for  his  opportunity. 

Snaky  Dick  sat  across  the  table  from  Texas,  drib- 
bling a  few  fifty-cent  chips  here  and  there  amongst 
the  numbers,  also  waiting.  To  him  the  play  was 
real;  he  had  seen  it  in  reality  a  thousand  times — a 


OWNERS  UP  117 

man  loaded  with  bad  liquor  and  in  possession  of 
money  running  the  gamut.  Behind  Snaky  Dick  sat 
others  of  the  Clatawa  clique  waiting  for  his  lead. 
Their  money  was  ready  to  cinch  the  match  as  soon  as 
made. 

Iron  Jaw  watched  Snaky  Dick  furtively;  the  time 
seemed  ripening.  They  had  arranged,  through 
some  little  vagaries  of  the  wheel,  vagaries  that  could 
be  brought  out  by  the  assistance  of  the  croupier, 
that  apparently  Texas  should  make  a  killing. 

Now  the  croupier  called  out:  "Make  your  bets, 
gentlemen."  He  gave  the  wheel  a  send-off  with 
finger  and  thumb,  his  droning  voice  singing  the  ca- 
dence of :  "Hurry  up,  gentlemen !  Make  "your 
bets  while  the  merry-go-round  plays  on." 

"For  a  repeat,"  Texas  shrilled,  dropping  the 
chips  one  after  another  on  to  the  thirteen  square  until 
they  stood  like  a  candle.  Impatiently  the  croupier 
checked  him: 

"Mind  the  limit,  Mister." 

"When  I  play  the  sky's  my  limit,"  Texas 
answered. 

"Not  here,"  the  croupier  admonished,  sweeping 
three-quarters  of  the  irory  discs  from  thirteen. 

The  little  ball  of  peripatetic  fate  that  had  held  on 
its  erratic  way  during  this,  now  settled  down  into 
a  compartment  painted  green. 

"Double  zerol"  the  croupier  remarked,  and  swept 
the  table  bare. 

Texas  cursed.  "There  ain't  no  double  zero  in 
racin' ;  there  ain't  no  green-eyed  horse  runnin'  for  the 


118  BULLDOG  CARNEY 

the  track — everybody's  got  a  chance.  Here !  I'm 
goin'  to  cash  in." 

He  shoved  the  ivory  chips  irritably  across  the 
table,  and  the  croupier,  stacking  them  in  his  board, 
said:  "A  thousand  and  fifty." 

As  methodically  as  he  had  built  up  the  chips,  from 
a  drawer  he  erected  little  golden  plinths  of  twenty- 
dollar  pieces,  and  with  both  hands  pushed  them  to- 
ward the  winner. 

Texas,  put  the  palm  of  his  hand  on  the  shiny 
mound,  saying: 

"I'm  goin'  to  orate;  I'm  gettin'  plumb  hide-bound 
'cause  of  this  long  sleep  in  Walla  Walla.  To-mor- 
row I'm  pullin'  my  freight  down  the  trail  to  the 
outside  where  men  is.  But  these  yeller-throated 
singin'  birds  says  I  got  a  cow-hocked  whang-doodle 
on  four  hoofs  named  Horned  Toad  that  can  outrun 
anything  that  eats  with  molars  in  Walla  Walla,  from 
a  grasshopper's  jump  to  four  miles.  Now  I've  said 
it,  ladies — who's  next?" 

A  quiet  voice  at  his  elbow  answered  almost  plain- 
tively: "If  you  will  take  your  paw  off  those  yellow 
boys  I'll  bury  them  twice." 

At  the.  sound  of  that  drawling  voice  Texas  sprang 
to  his  feet,  whirled,  and  seeing  Carney,  struck  at 
him  viciously.  Carney  simply  bent  his  lithe  body, 
and  the  next  instant  Iron  Jaw  had  Texas  by  the 
throat,  shaking  him  like  a  rat. 

"You  damn  locoed  fool!"  he  swore;  "what  d'you 
mean? — what  d'you  mean?"  each  query  being  em- 
phasized by  a  vigorous  shake. 


OWNERS  UP  119 

"He  simply  means,"  explained  Carney,  "that  he's 
a  cheap  bluffer — a  wind  gambler.  When  he's 
called  he  quits.  That's  just  what  I  thought." 

"Give  him  a  chance,  Blake,"  Death-on-the-trail 
interposed;  "let  go!" 

Iron  Jaw  pressed  Texas  back  into  his  chair, 
saying: 

"You've  got  too  much  booze.  If  you  want  to  bet 
on  your  horse  sit  there  and  cut  out  this  Injun  stuff." 

Snaky  Dick  had  jumped  to  his  feet,  startled  by  the 
fact  that  Carney  was  about  to  break  in  on  his  pre- 
serve. Now  he  said:  "If  Texas  is  pinin'  for  a 
race  Clatawa  is  waitin' — so  is  his  backin'." 

Carney  turned  his  gray  eyes  on  the  speaker: 

"There's  a  rule  in  this  country,  Snaky,  that  when 
two  men  have  got  a  discussion  on,  others  keep  out. 
I've  undertaken  to  call  this  jack  rabbit's  bluff,  and 
he  makes  good,  or  takes  his  noisy  organ  away  to 
play  it  outside  of  Walla  Walla." 

Texas  Sam  had  received  a  thumb  in  the  rib  from 
Iron  Jaw  that  meant,  "Go  ahead,"  so  he  said, 
surlily:  "There's  my  money  on  the  table.  Anybody 
can  come  in — the  game's  wide  open." 

"That  being  so,"  Carney  drawled,  "there's  a  lit- 
tle buckskin  horse  tied  to  the  post  outside,  that's 
carried  me  for  three  years  around  this  land  of  de- 
light, and  he  looks  good  to  me." 

He  unslung  from  his  waist  a  leather  roll,  and 
dropped  its  snake-like  body  across  the  Texas  coin, 
saying: 

"There's  two  thousand  in  twenties,  and  if  this 


120  BULLDOG  CARNEY 

cheap-singing  person  sees  the  raise,  it  goes  for  a  race 
at  a  mile-and-a-quarter  between  the  little  buckskin 
outside  and  this  cow-hocked  mule  he  sings  about." 

"I  want  to  see  this  damn  buckskin,"  Texas  ob- 
jected. 

"You  don't  need  to  worry,"  Iron  Jaw  commented; 
"the  horse  is  pretty  nigh  as  well  known  as  Bull- 
dog." 

But  Texas,  having  been  born  in  a  very  nest  of 
iniquity,  having  been  stable  boy,  tout,  half-mile- 
track  ringer,  and  runner  for  a  wire-tapping  bunch, 
was  naturally  suspicious. 

"I  don't  match  against  an  unknown,"  he  objected; 
"let  me  lamp  this  Flyin'  Dutchman  of  the  Plains; 
it  may  be  Salvator  for  all  I  know." 

"Let  him  get  out  the  door,"  Carney  sneered; 
"it  will  be  good-bye — we'll  never  see  him  again." 

"And  if  we  don't,"  Snaky  Dick  interposed,  "I'll 
cover  your  money,  Carney." 

Bulldog  swung  the  gray  eyes,  and  levelled  them 
at  the  red-and-yellow  streaked  beads  that  did  seeing 
duty  in  Snaky's  face: 

"You  ever  hear  about  the  gent  who  was  kicked 
out  of  Paradise  and  told  to  go  scoot  along  on  his 
belly  for  butting  in?"  Then  he  followed  the  little 
crowd  at  Texas  Sam's  heels. 

In  the  yellow  glare  of  the  Del  Monte  lights  the 
buckskin  looked  very  little  like  a  race  horse.  He 
stood  about  fifteen  and  a  quarter  hands,  looking 
not  much  more  than  a  pony,  as,  half  asleep,  he  had 
relaxed  his  body;  the  lop  ears  hanging  almost  at 


OWNERS  UP  121 

right  angles  to  his  lean  bony  head  suggested  humor 
more  than  speed.  He  stood  "over"  on  his  front 
legs,  a  habit  contracted  when  he  favoured  the  weak 
knees.  As  he  was  a  gelding  his  neck  was  thin,  so 
far  removed  from  a  crest  that  it  was  almost  ewe- 
like;  his  tremendous  width  of  rump  caused  the  hip 
bones  to  project,  suggesting  an  archaic  design  of 
equine  structure.  The  direct  lamplight  threw  cav- 
ernous shadows  all  over  his  lean  form. 

Texas  Sam  shot  one  rapid  look  of  appraisement 
over  the  sleepy  little  horse;  then  he  laughed. 

"Pinch  me,  Iron  Jaw!"  he  cried;  "am  I  ridin'  on 
the  tail  board  of  an  overland  bus  seein'  things  in 
the  desert,  and  hearin'  wings?" 

He  pointed  a  forefinger  at  the  buckskin.  "Is  that 
the  lopin'  jack-rabbit  that  runs  for  your  money?" 
he  queried  of  Carney. 

"That  horse's  name  is  Pat,"  Bulldog  answered 
quietly,  "and  we've  been  pals  so  long  that  when  any 
yapping  coyote  snaps  at  him  I  most  naturally  kick 
the  brute  out  of  the  way.  But  that's  the  horse, 
Buckskin  Pat,  that  my  money  says  can  outrun,  for 
a  mile-and-a-quarter,  the  horse  you  describe  as  a  cow- 
hocked  cow-pony,  the  same  being,  I  take  it,  the  horse 
you  scooted  away  on  when  I  palmed  you  on  the 
mouth  this  morning." 

Texas  Sam  was  naturally  of  a  vicious  temper, 
and  this  allusion  caused  him  to  flare  up  again,  as 
Carney  meant  it  to.  But  Iron  Jaw  whirled  him. 
around,  saying: 

"Cut  out  the  man  end  of  it — let's  get  down  to 


BULLDOG  CARNEY 

cases.  We  ain't  had  a  live  'boss  race  for  so  long 
that  1  most  forget  what  it  looks  like.  If  you  two 
mean  business  come  inside  and  put  up  your  bets,  gen- 
tlemen." 

Iron  Jaw  abrogated  to  himself  the  duty  of  Mas- 
ter of  Ceremonies.  First  he  set  his  croupier  to 
work  counting  the  gold  of  Texas  Sam  and  Bulldog 
Carney.  There  were  an  even  hundred  twenty-dollar 
gold  pieces  in  the  belt  Carney  had  thrown  on  the 
table. 

"You're  shy  on  the  raise,"  Iron  Jaw  remarked, 
win.king  at  Texas. 

"I'll  see  his  raise,"  the  latter  growled.  "You've 
got  more'n  that  of  mine  in  your  safe,  Iron  Jaw, 
so  stack  'em  up  for  me  till  they're  level.  I  might 
as  well  win  somethin'  worth  while — there  won't  be 
no  fun  in  the  race.  That  jack — that  buckskin," 
— he  checked  himself — "won't  make  me  go  fast 
enough  to  know  I'm  in  the  saddle." 

"You  let  me  in  that  and  I'll  furnish  the  speed," 
Snaky  Dick  could  not  resist  the  temptation  to  clutch 
at  the  money  he  saw  slipping  away  from  him. 
"Make  it  a  three-cornered  sweep,  Mr.  Carney," 
he  pleaded;  "I'll  ante." 

"It  would  be  some  race,"  Iron  Jaw  encouraged; 
"some  race,  boys.  I've  seen  the  little  buckskin 
amble.  I  don't  know  nothin'  about  this  Texas  per- 
son's caravan,  but  Clatawa,  for  a  sauce  bottle  that 
holds  both  warm  and  cold  blood,  ain't  so  slow — he 
ain't  so  slow,  gents." 

The  idea  caught  on ;  everybody  in  the  saloon  rose 


OWNERS  UP 

to  the  occasion.  Yells  of,  "Make  it  a  sweep !  Let 
Clatawa  in !  Wake  up  old  Walla  Walla  with  some- 
thing worth  while!"  came  from  many  throats. 

Bulldog  seemed  to  debate  the  matter,  a  smile 
twitching  his  drab  mustache. 

"I've  said  it,"  Texas  cried;  "she's  wide  open. 
Anybody  that's  got  a  pet  eagle  he  thinks  can  fly 
faster'n  my  cow-pony  can  run,  can  enter  him.  There 
ain't  no  one  barred,  and  the  limit's  up  where  the- 
pines  point  to." 

Snaky  Dick  had  edged  around  the  table  till  he 
stood  close  beside  Bulldog,  where  he  whispered: 
"Let  me  in,  Carney;  I've  been  layin'  for  this  flannel- 
mouth.  I  don't  want  to  see  him  get  away  with 
Walla  Walla  money.  You  save  your  stake  with 
me,  if  I'm  in." 

Carney  pushed  the  little  wizzen-face  speaker 
away,  saying: 

"Any  kind  of  a  talking  bird  can  swing  in  on  a 
winning  if  he's  got  a  copper-riveted,  cinch  bet. 
But  sport,  as  I  understand  it,  gentlemen,  consists 
in  providing  excitement,  taking  on  long  chances." 

"That's  Bulldog  talkin',"  somebody  interrupted; 
and  they  all  cheered. 

"That  being  acknowledged,"  Carney  resumed,  "I 
feel  like  stealing  candy  from  a  blind  kid  when  I 
crowd  in  on  this  Texas  person.  A  yellow  man 
wouldn't  know  how  to  own  a  real  horse ;  that  money 
on  the  table  is,  so  to  speak,  mine  now;  but  as  Snaky 
Dick  is  panting  to  make  it  a  real  race,  purely  out 
of  a  kindly  feeling  for  Walla  Walla  sports,  I'm 


124-  BULLDOG  CARNEY 

going  to  let  him  draw  cards.     Clatawa  is  welcome." 

"The  drinks  is  on  the  house  when  I  hear  a  wolf 
howl  like  that!"  Snaggle  Tooth  yelled.  "Crowd 
up,  gentlemen — the  drinks  is  on  the  house!  Old 
Walla  Walla  is  goin'  to  sit  up  and  take  notice; 
Bulldog  is  some  live  wire." 

Chairs  were  thrust  back;  men  crowded  the  bar; 
liquors  were  tossed  off.  Sheriff  Teddy  the  Leaper, 
who  had  come  in,  felt  his  arm  touched  by  Carney, 
and  inclining  his  head  to  a  gentle  pull  at  his  coat- 
sleeve,  he  heard  the  latter  whisper,  "Stake  holder  for 
my  sake."  That  was  all. 

Then  the  crowd  swarmed  back  to  the  table  where 
the  croupier  had  remained  beside  the  mound  of  gold. 

"You  give  Jim,  there,  a  receipt  for  a  thousand, 
and  he'll  pass  it  out,"  Iron  Jaw  told  Texas. 

Jim  the  croupier  took  from  the  safe  behind  him 
rolls  of  twenty-dollar  gold  pieces  and  stood  them 
up  in  Texas's  pile.  He  removed  a  few  coins,  say- 
ing, "The  pot  is  right,  gentlemen;  two  thousand 
apiece." 

"Hold  on,"  Snaky  Dick  cried;  "it  ain't  closed  yet 
— I  draw  cards." 

"Not  till  you  see  the  bet  and  the  raise,"  Carney 
objected.  "Nobody  whispers  his  way  into  this 
game;  it's  for  blood." 

"Give  me  a  cheque  book,  Snaggle  Tooth,"  Snaky 
pleaded. 

"Flimsies  don't  go,"  Carney  objected. 

"Nothin'  but  the  coin  weighs  in  agin  me,"  Texas 
agreed;  "put  up  the  dough-boys  or  keep  out." 


OWNERS  UP  125 

Snaky  was  in  despair.  Here  was  just  the  softest 
spot  in  all  the  world,  and  without  the  cash  he  couldn't 
get  in. 

"Will  you  cash  my  cheque?"  he  asked  Iron 
Jaw. 

"If  Baker'll  O.K.  it  I  figger  you  must  have  the 
stuff  in  his  bank — it'll  be  good  enough  for  me,"  Iron 
Jaw  replied. 

There  was  a  little  parley  between  Snaky  Dick, 
his  associates,  and  Baker,  who  was  a  private  banker. 
The  cheque  was  made  out,  endorsed,  and  cashed 
from  the  gambling  funds,  Iron  Jaw  being  a  partner 
of  Snaggle  Tooth's  in  this  commercial  enterprise. 

When  the  pot  was  complete,  six  thousand  on  the 
table,  Texas  said: 

"We've  got  to  have  a  stakeholder;  puj;  the  money 
in  Blake's  hands — does  that  go?" 

Snaky  Dick  coughed,  and  hesitated.  He  had  no 
suspicion  that  Iron  Jaw  had  any  interest  with  Texas 
Sam,  but  knowing  the  man  as  he  did,  he  felt  sure 
that  before  the  race  was  run  Iron  Jaw  and  Snaggle 
Tooth  would  be  in  the  game  up  to  the  eyes. 

The  drawling  voice  of  Garney  broke  the  little 
hush  that  followed  this  request. 

"You're  from  the  outside,  Texas;  you  know  all 
about  your  own  horse,  and  that  lets  you  out.  The 
selecting  of  a  stakeholder,  and  such,  most  properly 
belongs  to  Walla  Walla,  that  is  to  say,  such  of  us 
interested  as  more  or  less  live  here.  The  Sheriff 
of  Shoshone,  who  is  present,  if  he'll  oblige,  is  the 
man  that  holds  my  money,  and  yours,  too,  unless 


BULLDOG  CARNEY 

you  want  to  crawfish.     Does  that  suit  you,  Snaky?" 
"It  does,"  the  latter  answered  cheerfully,   for, 
fully  believing  that  Clatawa  was  going  to  show  a 
clean  pair  of  heels  to  the  other  horses,  he  wanted 
the  money  where  he  could  get  it  without  gun-play. 
"That's  settled,  then,"  Carney  said  blithely,  ignor- 
ing Texas  completely.     He  turned  to  Teddy  the 
Leaper:     "Will  you  oblige,  Sheriff?" 

The  Sheriff  was  agreeable,  saying  that  as  soon 
as  they  had  completed  details  they  would  take  the 
money  over  to  Baker's  bank  and  lock  it  up  in  the 
safe,  Baker  promising  to  take  charge  of  it,  even  if 
it  were  at  night. 

"Just  repeat  the  conditions  of  the  match,"  the 
Sheriff  said,  and  he  drew  from  his  pocket  a  note 
book  and  pencil. 

Carney  seized  the  opportunity  to  say : 
UA  three-cornered  race  between  the  buckskin 
gelding  Pat,  the  black  gelding  Horned  Toad,  and 
the  bay  horse  Clatawa  at  one  mile  and  a  quarter. 
The  stake,  two  thousand  dollars  a  corner;  winner 
take  all.  To  be  run  one  week  from  to-day." 

"Is  that  right,  gentlemen?"  the  Sheriff  asked;  "all 
agreed?" 

"Owners  up — this  is  a  gentleman's  race,"  Texas 
snapped. 

"Satisfactory?"  the  Sheriff  asked,  his  eyes  on  Car- 
ney. 

The  latter  nodded;  and  Iron  Jaw  winked  at  Snag- 
gle  Tooth. 

Snaky  Dick  could  scarce  credit  his  ears;  surely 


OWNERS  UP  127 

the  gods  were  looking  with  favor  upon  his  fortunes; 
the  other  riders  would  be  giving  him  many  pounds  in 
this  self-accepted  handicap. 

At  Sheriff  Teddy's  suggestion  the  gold  was  car- 
ried over  to  Baker's  bank,  a  stone  building  almost 
opposite  the  Del  Monte;  the  bag  containing  it  was 
sealed  and  placed  in  a  big  safe,  Baker  giving  the 
Sheriff  a  receipt  for  six  thousand  dollars. 

Then  they  went  back  to  the  Del  Monte  for  tar- 
get practise  at  the  bottle,  each  man  implicated  buying 
ammunition. 

At  this  time  Carney  had  taken  the  buckskin  to 
his  stable,  going  back  to  the  saloon. 

Snaggle  Tooth  made  a  short  patriotic  speech,  the 
burden  of  which  was  that  the  saloon  was  full  of  men 
of  eager  habit  who  had  not  had  a  chance  to  sit  into 
the  game,  and  to  ameliorate  the  condition  of  these 
mournful  mavericks  he  would  sell  pools  on  the  race, 
for  the  mere  honorarium  of  five  per  cent. 

Fever  was  in  the  men's  blood;  if  he  had  suggested 
twenty  per  cent  it  would  have  gone. 

Snaggle  Toe  h  took  up  his  position  behind  a  faro 
table  and  calle-  out : 

"The  pool  is  open,  with  Clatawa,  Horned  Toad, 
and  Pat  in  the  box.  What  am  I  bid  for  first  choice  ?" 

"Twenty  dollars,"  a  voice  cried. 

"Thiity,"  another  said. 

"Forty." 

"Fifty." 

A  dry  rasp  that  suggested  an  alkaline  throat 
squeaked:  "A  hundred.  Is  this  a  horse  race,  or 


128  BULLDOG  CARNEY 

are  we  dribblin'  into  the  plate  at  the  synagogue?" 

"Sold!"  Snaggle  Tooth  yapped,  knowing  well  that 
excitement  begat  quick  action.  "Which  cayuse  do 
you  favor,  plunger?" 

"The  range  horse,  Clatawa." 

The  croupier  at  Snaggle  Tooth's  elbow  took  the 
bidder's  five  twenty-dollar  gold  pieces  and  passed 
him  a  slip  with  Clatawa's  name  on  it. 

"A  hundred  dollars  in  the  box  and  second  choice 
for  sale,"  Snaggle  Tooth  drawled,  his  prominent 
fang  gleaming  in  the  lamp  light  as  he  mouthed  the 
words. 

Ten,  twenty,  thirty,  forty,  fifty  was  bid  like  the 
quick  popping  of  a  machine  gun ;  at  seventy-five  the 
bids  hung  fire,  and  the  auctioneer,  thumping  the 
table  with  his  bony  fist,  snapped,  "Sold!  Name 
your  jack  rabbit." 

"Horned  Toad!"  came  from  the  bidder  of  the 
seventy-five. 

"A  hundred  and  seventy-five  in  the  box,"  Snag- 
gle Tooth  droned,  "and  the  buckskin  ^or  sale.  What 
about  it,  you  pikers — what  about  it?  ' 

There  seemed  to  be  nothing  about  it,  unless  silence 
was  something.  The  hush  seemed  to  dampen  the 
gambling  spirit. 

"What!"  yelped  Snaggle  Tooth;  "two  thousand 
golden  bucks  staked  on  the  horse  now,  and  no  tin- 
horn with  sand  enough  in  his  gizzard  to  open  his 
trap.  This  is  a  race,  not  a  funeral — who's  dead? 
Bulldog,  you  laid  even  money;  here's  a  hundred  and 


OWNERS  UP  129 

seventy-five  goin'  a-beggin'.  Ain't  you  got  a 
chance?" 

"Ten  dollars!"  Carney  bid  as  if  driven  into  it. 

"Ten  dollars,  ten  dollars  bid  for  the  buckskin; 
a  hundred  and  seventy-five  in  the  box,  and  ten  dol- 
lars bid  for  the  buckskin.  Sold!" 

The  first  pool  was  followed  by  others,  one  after^ 
another:  the  roulette  table,  the  keno  game,  and  faro 
were  in  the  discard — their  tables  were  deserted. 

It  soon  became  evident  that  Clatawa  was  a  hot 
favorite;  the  public's  money  was  all  for  the  Walla 
Walla  champion. 

Noting  this,  the  Horned  Toad  trio  hung  back, 
bidding  less.  Clatawa  was  selling  for  a  hundred, 
Horned  Toad  about  fifty,  and  the  buckskin  some- 
times knocked  down  at  ten  to  Carney,  or  sometimes 
bid  up  to  twenty  by  someone  tempted  by  the  odds. 

At  last  Carney  slipped  quietly  away,  having  bought 
at  least  twenty  pools  that  stood  him  between  three 
and  four  thousand  to  a  matter  of  two  hundred. 

In  the  morning  he  rode  the  buckskin  out  to  Molly's 
cottage  and  turned  him  over  to  Billy. 

The  boy's  voice  trembled  with  delight  when  he  was 
told  of  what  had  taken  place. 

"Gee!  now  I  will  get  well,"  he  said;  "I'll  beat  the 
bug  out  now — I'll  have  heart.  You  see,  Mr.  Car- 
ney, I  got  set  down  in  California  a  year  ago.  It 
wasn't  my  fault;  I  was  ridin'  for  Timberleg  Har- 
ley,  and  he  give  the  horse  a  bucket  of  water  before 
the  race;  he  didn't  want  to  win — was  lettin'  the 
horse  run  for  Sweeney,  layin'  for  a  big  price  later 


130  BULLDOG  CARNEY 

on.  He  had  an  interest  in  a  book,  and  they  took 
liberties  with  the  horse's  odds — he  was  favorite. 
He  didn't  dare  tell  me  anything  about  it,  the  hound. 
When  I  found  the  horse  couldn't  raise  a  gallop, 
hangin'  in  my  hands  like  a  sea  lion,  I  didn't  ride  him 
out,  thinkin'  he'd  broke  down.  They  had  me  up 
in  the  Judges'  Stand,  and  sent  for  the  books.  It 
looked  bad.  Timberleg  got  off  by  swearin'  I'd 
pulled  the  horse  to  let  the  other  one  win ;  swore  that 
I  stood  in  with  the  book  that  overlaid  him.  I  was 
give  the  gate,  and  it  just  broke  my  heart.  I  was 
weak  from  wastin'  anyway.  And  you  can't  beat 
the  bug  out  if  your  heart's  soft;  the  bug'll  win — 
it's  a  hundred-to-one  on  him.  First  thing  I'm 
goin'  to  give  Waster  a  ball  to  clean  him  out, 
give  him  a  bran  mash,  too.  He  must  be  like  a 
currycomb  inside,  grass  and  hay  and  everything 
here  is  full  of  this  damn  cactus.  A  week  ain't 
much  to  ready  up  a  horse  for  a  race,  but  he 
ain't  got  no  fat  to  work  off,  and  he  knows  the  game. 
In  a  week  he'll  be  as  spry  as  a  kitten.  I'll  just  play 
with  him.  I'll  bunk  with  him,  too.  If  Slimy  Red 
got  wise  to  anything  he'd  slip  him  a  twig  of  locoe, 
or  put  a  sponge  up  his  nose.  Do  you  know  what 
that  thief  did  once,  Mr.  Carney?  He  was  a  moon- 
lighter; he  sneaked  the  favorite  for  a  race  that  was 
to  be  run  next  day  out  of  his  stall  at  night  and  gal- 
loped him  four  miles  with  about  a  hundred  and  sixty 
in  the  saddle.  That  settled  the  favorite;  he  run 
his  race  same's  if  he  was  pullin'  a  hearse. 

"That's  a  good  idea,  Billy.     There's  half-a-dozen 


OWNERS  UP  131 

Slimy  Reds  in  Walla  Walla:  it's  a  good  idea,  only 
I'll  do  the  sleeping  with  the  buckskin.  I'd  be  lone- 
some away  from  him." 

The  boy  objected,  but  Carney  was  firm. 

Billy  was  not  only  a  good  rider,  but  he  was  a 
man  of  much  brains.  There  was  little  of  the  art  of 
training  that  he  did  not  know,  for  his  father  had 
been  a  trainer  before  him — he  had  been  brought  up 
in  a  stable. 

Fortunately  the  buckskin's  working  life  had  left 
little  to  be  desired  in  the  way  of  conditioning;  it  was 
just  that  the  sinews  and  muscles  might  have  become 
case-hardened,  more  the  muscles  of  endurance  than 
activity. 

But  then  the  race  was  over  a  distance,  a  mile-and- 
a-quarter,  where  the  endurance  of  the  thoroughbred 
would  tell  over  Clatawa.  Indeed,  full  of  the  con- 
tempt which  a  racing  man  has  for  a  cold-blooded 
horse,  Billy  did  not  consider  Clatawa  in  the  race 
at  all. 

"That  part  of  it  is  just  found  money,"  he  assured 
Carney.  "Clatawa  will  go  off  with  a  burst  of  speed 
like  those  Texas  half-milers,  and  he'll  commence 
to  die  at  the  mile;  he  hasn't  a  chance." 

As  to  Ding  Dong  it  was  simply  a  question  of 
whether  the  black  had  improved  and  Waster  gone 
back  enough,  through  being  thrown  out  of  train- 
ing, to  bring  the  two  together.  Anywhere  near 
alike  in  condition  Waster  was  a  fourteen-pound  bet- 
ter horse  than  Ding  Dong.  It  might  be  that  now, 
his  legs  sounder  than  they  had  ever  been  when  he 


,132  BULLDOG  CARNEY 

was  racing,  Waster  might  run  the  best  mile-and-a- 
quarter  of  his  life. 

Of  course  this  might  not  be  possible  in  a  three- 
quarter  sprint,  for,  at  that  terrific  rate  of  going,  run- 
ning it  from  end  to  end  at  top  speed,  a  certain  ner- 
vous or  muscular  system  would  be  called  upon  that 
had  practically  become  atrophied  through  the  more 
leisure  ways  of  the  trail  work. 

The  little  man  pondered  over  these  many  things 
just  as  a  man  of  commerce  might  mentally  canvas 
great  markets,  conveying  his  point  of  view  to  Car- 
ney generally.  He  would  map  out  the  race  as  they 
sat  together  in  the  evening. 

"Of  course  Snaky  Dick  will  shoot  out  from  the 
crack  of  the  pistol,  and  try  to  open  up  a  gap  that'll 
break  our  hearts.  He  won't  dare  to  pull  Clatawa  in 
behind;  a  cold-blooded  horse's  got  the  heart  of  a 
chicken — he'd  quit.  Slimy'll  carry  Ding  Dong 
along  at  a  rate  he  knows  will  leave  him  enough  for 
a  strong  run  home;  but  he'll  think  that  he's  only  got 
Clatawa  to  beat  and  he'll  pull  out  of  his  pace — 
he'll  keep  within  strikin'  distance  of  Clatawa.  I'll 
let  them  go  on.  I  know  'bout  how  fast  Waster  can 
run  that  mile-and-a-quarter  from  end  to  end.  Don't 
you  worry  ff  you  see  me  ten  lengths  out  of  it  at  the 
mile.  Waster  won  all  his  races  comin'  through  his 
horses  from  behind — 'cause  he's  game.  When  Cal- 
tawa  cracks,  and  I'm  not  up,  Slimy'll  stop  ridin'  he'll 
let  his  horse  down  thinkin'  he's  won.  You'll  see, 
Mr.  Carney.  If  a  quarter-of-a-mile  from  the  fin- 
ish post  I'm  within  three  lengths  of  Ding  Dong  and 


OWNERS  UP  133 

not  drivin'  him  you  can  take  all  the  money  in  sight. 
I'll  tell  you  somethin'  else,  Mr.  Carney;  if  I'm  up 
with  Ding  Dong,  and  Slimy  Red  thinks  I've  got 
him,  he'll  try  a  foul." 

"Glad  you  mentioned  it,  little  man,"  Carney  re- 
marked drily. 

The  buckskin  was  given  a  long  steady  gallop  the 
day  after  he  had  received  the  ball  of  physic;  then 
for  three  days  he  was  given  short  sprinting  runs 
and  a  little  practise  at  breaking  from  the  gun.  Two 
days  before  the  race  he  was  given  a  mile  and  a  quar- 
ter at  a  little  under  full  speed;  rated  as  though  he 
were  in  a  race,  the  last  half  a  topping  gallop.  He 
showed  little  distress,  and  cleaned  up  his  oats  an 
hour  later  after  he  had  been  cooled  out.  Billy  was 
in  an  ecstasy  of  happy  content. 
•  Nobody  who  was  a  judge  of  a  horse's  pace  had 
seen  Waster  gallop  his  trial  over  the  full  course, 
for  the  boy  had  arranged  it  cleverly.  Texas  Sam 
and  Snaky  Dick  both  worked  their  horses  in  the 
morning,  and  sometimes  gave  them  a  slow  gallop  in 
the  evening.  Billy  knew  that  at  the  first  peep  of 
day  some  of  the  Clatawa  people  would  be  on  the 
track,  so  he  waited  that  morning  until  everybody  had 
gone  home  to  breakfast,  thinking  all  the  gallops  were 
over;  then  he  slipped  on  to  the  course  and  covered 
the  mile-and-a-quarter  without  being  seen. 

The  course  was  a  straightaway,  one  hundred  feet 
wide,  lying  outside  of  the  town  on  the  open  plain, 
and  running  parallel  to  the  one  long  street.  The 
finish  post  was  opposite  the  heart  of  the  town. 


134  BULLDOG  CARNEY 

The  week  was  one  long  betting  carnival;  one  heard 
nothing  but  betting  jargon.  It  was  horse  morning, 
noon,  and  night. 

Carney  had  acquired  another  riding  horse,  and 
the  Horned  Toad  cabal  laughed  cynically  at  his  seri- 
ousness. Iron  Jaw  could  not  understand  it,  for  Bull- 
dog had  a  reputation  for  cleverness;  but  here  he  was 
acting  like  a  tenderfoot.  Once  or  twice  a  suspicion 
flashed  across  his  mind  that  perhaps  Bulldog  had  dis- 
covered something,  and  meant  to  call  them  after  they 
had  won  the  race.  But  there  was  Clatawa;  there 
was  nothing  to  cover  up  in  his  case,  and  surely  Car- 
ney didn't  think  he  could  beat  the  bay  with  his  buck- 
skin. Besides  they  weren't  racing  under  Jockey 
Club  rules.  They  hadn't  guaranteed  anything; 
Carney  had  matched  his  horse  against  the  black, 
and  there  he  was;  names  didn't  count — the  horse 
was  the  thing. 

Molly  had  heard  about  the  match  and  had  grown 
suspicious  over  Billy's  active  participation,  fearing 
it  might  bring  on  a  hemorrhage  if  he  rode  a  punish- 
ing race.  When  she  taxed  Billy  with  this  he  pleaded 
so  hard  for  a  chance  to  help  out,  assuring  Molly  that 
Waster  would  run  his  own  race,  and  would  need 
little  help  from  him,  that  she  yielded.  When  she 
talked  to  Bulldog  about  it  he  told  her  he  was  going 
to  give  the  whole  stake  to  Billy,  the  four  thousand, 
if  he  won  it. 

And  then  came  the  day  of  the  great  match.  From 
the  time  the  first  golden  shafts  of  sunlight  had 
streamed  over  the  Bitter  Root  Mountains,  picking 


OWNERS  UP  135 

out  the  forms  of  Walla  Walla's  structures,  that 
looked  so  like  a  mighty  pack  of  wolves  sleeping  in 
the  plain,  till  well  on  into  the  afternoon,  the  border 
town  had  been  in  a  ferment.  What  mattered 
whether  there  was  gold  in  the  Coeur  d'Alene  or  not; 
whether  the  Nez  Perces  were  good  Presbyterians 
under  the  leadership,  physically,  of  Chief  Joseph, 
and  spiritually,  Missionary  Mackay,  was  of  no  mo- 
ment. A  man  lay  cold  in  death,  a  plug  of  lead  some- 
where in  his  chest,  the  result  of  a  gambling  row, 
but  the  morrow  would  be  soon  enough  to  investigate ; 
to-day  was  the  day — the  day  of  the  race;  minor 
business  was  suspended. 

It  made  men  thirsty  this  hot,  parching  anticipation ; 
women  had  a  desire  for  finery.  Doors  stood  open, 
for  the  dwellers  could  not  sit,  but  prowled  in  and 
out,  watching  the  slow,  loitering  clock  hands  for 
four  o'clock. 

One  phrase  was  on  everybody's  lips:  "I'll  take 
that  bet." 

Numerically  the  followers  of  Clatawa  were  in 
the  majority;  but  there  was  a  weight  of  metal  be- 
hind Horned  Toad  that  steadied  the  market;  it  came 
from  a  mysterious  source.  Texas  Sam  had  been 
played  for  a  blatant  fool;  nobody  had  seen  Horned 
Toad  show  a  performance  that  would  warrant  back- 
ing. 

The  little  buckskin  was  looked  upon  as  a  sacrifice 
to  his  owner's  well-known  determination,  his  wild 
gambling  spirit,  that  once  roused,  could  not  be 
bluffed.  They  pitied  Carney  because  they  liked  him ; 


136  BULLDOG  CARNEY 

but  what  was  the  use  of  stringing  with  a  man  who 
held  the  weakest  hand?  And  yet  when  somebody, 
growing  rash,  offered  ten  to  one  against  the  buck- 
skin, a  man,  quite  as  calm  and  serene  as  Bulldog 
Carney  himself,  looking  like  a  placer  miner  who 
worked  a  rocker  on  some  bend  of  the  Columbia, 
would  say,  diffidently,  'Til  take  that  bet."  And  he 
would  make  good — one  yellow  eagle  or  fifty.  It 
was  almost  ominous,  the  quiet  seriousness  of  this 
man  who  said  his  name  was  Oregon,  just  Oregon. 

"Talk  of  gamblers,"  Iron  Jaw  said  with  a  splut- 
tering laugh,  and  he  pointed  to  the  street  where 
little  knots  of  people  stood,  close  packed  against 
some  two,  who,  money  in  hand,  were  backing  their 
faith.  Then  the  fatty  laugh  chilled  into  a  cold- 
blooded sneer: 

"Snaggle  Tooth,  we'll  learn  these  tin-horns  some- 
thin';  tomorrow  your  safe  won't  be  big  enough  to 
hold  it.  But,  say,  don't  let  that  Texas  brayin'  ass 
have  no  more  booze." 

"If  you  ask  me,  Blake,  I  think  he's  yeller.  He's 
plumb  babyfied  now  because  of  Carney — sober  he'd 
quit." 

"Carney  won't  turn  a  hair  when  we  win." 

"Course  he  won't.  But  you  can't  get  that  into 
Texas's  noodle  with  a  funnel — he's  hoodooed;  wants 
me  to  plant  a  couple  of  gun  men  at  the  finish  for 
fear  Bulldog'll  grab  him." 

'Look  here,  Snaggle,  that  coyote — hell !  I  know 
the  breed  of  them  outlaws,  they'd  rather  win  a  race 
crooked  than  by  their  horse  gallopin'  in  front — 


OWNERS  UP  137 

he  just  can't  trust  himself;  he's  afraid  he'll  foul  the 
others  when  the  chance  flashes  on  him.  You  just 
tell  him  that  we  can't  stand  to  kiss  twenty  thousand 
good-bye  because  of  any  Injun  trick;  the  Sheriff 
wouldn't  stand  for  it  for  a  minute;  he'd  turn  the 
money  over  to  the  horse  that  he  thought  ought  to 
get  it,  quick  as  a  wolf'd  grab  a  calf  by  the  throat." 

That  was  the  atmosphere  on  that  sweet-breathed 
August  day  in  the  archaic  town  of  Walla  Walla. 

It  was  a  perfectly  conceived  race;  three  men  in 
it  and  each  one  confident  that  he  held  a  royal  flush ; 
each  one  certain  that,  bar  crooked  work,  he  could 
win. 

The  sporting  Commandant  of  the  U.  S.  Cavalry 
troop  had  been  appointed  judge  of  the  finish  at  the 
Sheriff's  suggestion;  and  another  officer  was  to  fire 
the  starting  gun. 

It  was  a  springy  turf  course;  just  the  going  to  suit 
Waster,  whose  legs  had  been  dicky.  On  a  hard 
course,  built  up  of  clay  and  sand,  guiltless  of  turf, 
the  fierce  hammering  of  the  hoofs  might  even  yet 
heat  up  his  joints,  though  they  looked  sound;  his 
clutching  hoofs  might  cup  out  unrooted  earth  and 
bow  a  tendon. 

An  hour  before  race  time  people  had  flocked  out 
to  the  goal  where  would  be  settled  the  ownership 
of  thousands  of  dollars  by  the  gallant  steed  that 
first  caught  the  judge's  eye  as  he  flashed  past  the 
post.  Even  Lieutenant  Governor  Moore  was  there ; 
that  magnificent  Nez  Perces,  Chief  Joseph,  sat  his 
half-blooded  horse  a  six-foot-three  bronze  Apollo, 


138  BULLDOG  CARNEY 

every  inch  a  king  in  his  beaded  buckskins  and  his 
eagle  feathers.  The  picture  was  Homeric,  grand; 
and  behind  the  canvas  was  the  subtle  duplicity  of 
gold  worshipers. 

At  half-past  three  a  hush  fell  over  the  chattering, 
betting,  vociferating  throng,  as  the  judge,  a  tall 
soldierly  figure  of  a  man,  called: 

"Bring  out  the  horses  for  this  race :  it  is  time  to  go 
to  the  post!" 

Clatawa  was  the  first  to  push  from  behind  the 
throng  to  the  course  where  the  judge  stood.  He 
was  a  beautiful,  high-spirited  bay  with  black  points, 
and  a  broad  line  of  white,  starting  from  a  star  in 
his  forehead,  ran  down  his  somewhat  Roman  nose. 
Two  men  led  him,  one  on  either  side,  and  a  blanket 
covered  his  form. 

Then  Horned  Toad  was  led  forward  by  a  stable 
man;  beneath  a  loose  blanket  showed  the  outlines 
of  a  small  saddle.  The  horse  walked  with  the 
unconcerned  step  of  one  accustomed  to  crowds,  and 
noise,  and  blare.  Beside  him  strode  Texas  Sam,  a 
long  coat  draping  his  form. 

Behind  Horned  Toad  came  the  buckskin,  at  his 
heels  Bulldog  Carney,  and  beside  Carney  a  figure 
that  might  have  been  an  eager  boy  out  for  the  holi- 
day. The  buckskin  walked  with  the  same  indiffer- 
ence Horned  Toad  had  shown. 

As  he  was  brought  to  a  stand  he  lifted  his  long 
lean  neck,  threw  up  the  flopped  ears,  spread  his 
nostrils,  and  with  big  bright  eyes  gazed  far  down 
the  track,  so  like  a  huge  ribbon  laid  out  on  the  plain, 


OWNERS  UP  139 

as  if  wondering  where  was  the  circular  course  he 
loved  so  well.  He  knew  it  was  a  race — that  he  was 
going  to  battle  with  those  of  his  own  kind.  The 
tight  cinching  of  the  little  saddle  on  his  back,  the 
bandages  on  his  shins,  the  sponging  out  of  his  mouth, 
the  little  sprinting  gallops  he  had  had — all  these 
touches  had  brought  back  to  his  memory  the  game 
his  rich  warm,  thoroughbred  blood  loved.  His  very 
tail  was  arched  with  the  thrill  of  it. 

"Mount  your  horses;  it  is  time  to  go  to  the  post!" 
Judge  Cummings  called,  watch  in  hand. 

The  blanket  was  swept  from  Clatawa's  back, 
showing  nothing  but  a  wide,  padded  surcingle,  with 
a  little  pocket  either  side  for  his  rider's  feet.  And 
Snaky  Dick,  dropping  his  coat,  stood  almost  as 
scantily  attired;  a  pair  of  buckskin  trunks  being 
the  only  garment  that  marked  his  brown,  monkey- 
like  form. 

Horned  Toad  carried  a  racing  saddle,  and  from 
a  shaffle  bit  the  reins  ran  through  the  steel  rings  of 
a  martingale. 

At  this  Carney  smiled,  and  more  than  one  in  the 
crowd  wondSred  at  this  get-up  for  a  supposed  cow- 
pony. 

Then  when  Texas  threw  his  long  coat  to  a  stable 
man,  and  stood  up  a  slim  lath  of  a  man,  clad  in  light 
racing  boots,  thin  white  tight-fitting  racing  breeches 
and  a  loose  silk  jacket,  people  stared  again.  It  was 
as  if,  by  necromancy,  he  had  suddenly  wasted  from 
off  his  bones  forty  pounds  of  flesh. 

But  there  was  still  further  magic  waiting  the  curi- 


149  BULLDOG  CARNEY 

cms  throng,  for  now  the  buckskin,  stripped  of  his 
blanket,  showed  atop  his  well-ribbed  back  a  tiny 
matter  of  pigskin  that  looked  like  a  huge  postage 
stamp.  And  the  little  figure  of  a  man,  one  foot  in 
Carney's  hand,  was  lifted  lightly  to  the  saddle,  where 
he  sat  in  attire  the  duplicate  of  Texas  Sam's. 

With  a  bellow  of  rage  Iron  Jaw  pushed  forward, 
crying : 

"Hold,  there!  What  th'  hell  are  you  doin'  on 
that  horse,  you  damn  runt?  Get  down!" 

He  reached  a  huge  paw  to  the  rider's  thigh,  as 
though  he  would  yank  him  out  of  the  saddle. 

His  fingers  had  scarce  touched  the  boy's  leg  when 
his  hands  were  thrown  up  in  the  air,  and  he  reeled 
back  from  a  scimitar-like  cut  on  his  wind-pipe  from 
the  flat  open  hand  of  Carney,  and  choking,  sputtering 
an  oath  of  raging  astonishment,  he  found  himself 
looking  into  the  bore  of  a  gun,  and  heard  a  voice 
that  almost  hissed  in  its  constrained  passion: 

"You  coarse  butcher!  You  touch  that  boy  and 
you'll  wake  up  in  hell.  Now  stand  back  and  make 
to  Judge  Cummings  any  complaint  you  have." 

Snaggle  Tooth  and  Death-on-the-trail  had  pushed 
to  Iron  Jaw's  side,  their  hands  on  their  guns,  and 
Carney,  full  of  a  passion  rare  with  him,  turned  on 
them: 

"Draw,  if  you  want  that,  or  lift  your  hands,  damn 
quick!" 

Surlily  they  dropped  their  half-drawn  guns  back 
into  their  pig-skin  pockets.  And  Oregon,  who  had 
thrust  forward,  drew  close  to  the  two  and  said 


OWNERS  UP  141 

something  in  a  low  voice  that  brought  a  bitter  look 
of  hatred  into  the  face  of  Snaggle  Tooth. 

But  Oregon  looked  him  in  the  eye  and  said 
audibly:  "That's  the  last  call  to  chuck — don't  for- 
get." 

Iron  Jaw  was  now  appealing  to  the  judge : 

"This  match  was  for  owners  up." 

He  beckoned  forward  the  stakeholder: 

"Ain't  that  so,  Sheriff — owners  up?" 

"That  was  the  agreement,"  Teddy  sustained. 

"Wasn't  that  the  bargain,  Carney?"  Iron  Jaw 
asked,  turning  on  Bulldog. 

"It  was." 

"Then  what  th'  hell  're  you  doin'  afoot — and  that 
monkey  up?"  And  Iron  Jaw  jerked  a  thumb  vi- 
ciously over  his  shoulder  at  the  little  man  on  Waster. 

Carney's  head  lifted,  and  the  bony  contour  of  his 
lower  jaw  thrust  out  like  the  ram  of  a  destroyer: 

"Mr.  Blake,"  he  said  quietly,  "don't  use  any  foul 
words  when  you  speak  to  me — we're  not  good  enough 
pals  for  that ;  if  you  d  D  I'll  ram  those  crooked  teeth 
of  yours  down  your  throat.  Secondly,  that's  the 
owner  of  the  buckskin  sitting  on  his  back.  But  the 
owner  of  Horned  Toad  is  sitting  in  a  chair  down 
in  Portland,  a  man  named  Reilly,  and  that  thing  on 
Ding  Dong's  back  is  Slimy  Red,  a  man  who  has 
been  warned  off  every  track  in  the  West.  He 
doesn't  own  a  hair  in  the  horse's  tail." 

Iron  Jaw's  face  paled  with  a  sudden  compelling 
thought  that  Carney,  knowing  all  this,  and  still  bet- 
ting his  money,  held  cards  to  beat  him. 


BULLDOG  CARNEY 

The  judge  now  asked:  "Do  you  object  to  the 
rider  of  Horned  Toad,  Mr.  Carney?" 

"No,  sir — let  him  ride.  I'm  not  trying  to  win 
their  money  on  a  technicality,  but  on  a  horse." 

"Well,  the  agreement  was  owners  up,  you  admit?" 

"I  do,"  Carney  answered. 

"Did  this  boy  on  the  buckskin's  back  own  him 
when  the  match  was  made?" 

"He  did." 

"Is  there  any  proof  of  the  transaction,  the  sale?" 
Major  Cummings  asked. 

"Let  me  have  that  envelope  I  asked  you  to  keep," 
Carney  said,  addressing  the  sheriff. 

When  Teddy  drew  from  a  pocket  the  sealed 
envelope,  Carney  tore  it  open,  and  passed  to  the 
judge  the  bill  of  sale  to  MacKay  of  the  buckskin. 
Its  date  showed  that  it  had  been  executed  the  day 
the  match  was  made,  and  Teddy,  when  questioned, 
said  he  had  received  it  on  that  date,  and  before  the 
match  was  made. 

"It  was  a  plant,"  Iron  Jaw  objected;  "that  proves 
it.  Why  did  he  put  it  in  the  sheriff's  hands — why 
didn't  the  boy  keep  it — it  was  'his?" 

"Because  I  had  a  hunch  I  was  going  up  against 
a  bunch  of  crooks,"  Carney  answered  suavely; 
"crooks  who  played  win,  tie,  or  wrangle,  and  knew 
they  would  claim  the  date  was  forged  when  they 
were  beat  at  their  own  game.  And  there  was  an- 
other reason." 

Carney  drew  a  second  paper  from  the  envelope* 
and  passed  it  to  the  Judge.  It  was  a  brief  note 


OWNERS  UP  143 

stating  that  If  anything  happened  Carney  his  money, 
if  the  buckskin  won,  was  to  be  turned  over  to  the 
owner,  Billy  MacKay. 

When  the  judge  lifted  his  eyes  Carney  said,  with 
an  apologetic  little  smile:  "You  see,  the  boy's  got 
the  bug,  and  he's  up  against  it.  Molly  Burdan  is 
keeping  both  him  and  his  sister,  and  she  can't  afford 
it." 

Major  Cummings  coughed;  and  there  was  a  little 
husky  rasp  in  his  voice  as  he  said,  quietly: 

"The  objection  to  the  rider  of  the  buckskin  horse 
is  disallowed.  This  paper  proves  he  is  the  legiti- 
mate owner  and  entitled  to  ride.  Go  down  to  the 
post." 

A  yell  of  delight  went  up  from  many  throats. 
The  men  of  Walla  Walla,  and  the  riders  of  the 
plains  who  had  trooped  in,  were  sports ;  they  grasped 
the  idea  that  the  gambling  clique  had  been  caught 
at  their  own  game;  that  the  intrepid  Bulldog  had 
put  one  over  on  them.  Besides,  now  they  could 
see  that  the  race  was  for  blood.  The  heavy  betting 
had  started  more  than  one  whisper  that  perhaps 
it  was  a  bluff ;  some  of  the  Clatawa  people  believing 
in  the  invincibility  of  their  horse,  had  hinted  that 
perhaps  there  was  a  job  on  for  the  two  other  horses 
to  foul  Clatawa  and  one  of  them  go  on  and  win; 
though  few  would  admit  that  Carney  would  be  party 
to  cold-decking  the  public. 

But  accident  had  thrown  the  cards  all  on  the 
table ;  it  was  to  be  a  race  to  the  finish,  and  the  stakes 
represented  real  money. 


BULLDOG  CARNEY 

Before  they  could  start  quite  openly  Carney 
stepped  close  to  the  rider  of  Horned  Toad,  and  said, 
in  even  tones: 

"Slimy  Red,  if  you  pull  any  dirty  work  I'll  be  here 
at  the  finish  waiting  for  you.  If  you  can  win,  win ; 
but  ride  straight,  or  you'll  never  ride  again." 

"I'll  be  hangin'  round  the  finish  post,  too,"  Ore- 
gon muttered  abstractedly,  but  both  Iron  Jaw  and 
Snaggle  Tooth  could  hear  him. 

The  three  horses  passed  down  the  course,  Clatawa 
sidling  like  a  boat  in  a  choppy  sea,  champing  at  his 
bit  irritably,  flecks  of  white  froth  snapping  from 
his  lips,  and  his  tail  twitching  and  swishing,  indi- 
cating his  excitable  temperament;  Horned  Toad  and 
Waster  walked  with  that  springy  lift  to  the  pasterns 
that  indicated  the  perfection  of  breeding.  Indians 
and  cowboys  raced  up  and  down  the  plain,  either 
side  of  the  course,  on  their  ponies,  bandying  words 
in  a  very  ecstasy  of  delight.  Old  Walla  Walla  had 
come  into  its  own;  the  greatest  sport  on  earth  was 
on  in  all  its  glory. 

After  a  time  the  three  horses  were  seen  to  turn 
far  down  the  course ;  they  criss-crossed,  and  wove  in 
and  out  a  few  times  as  they  were  being  placed  by 
the  starter.  The  excitable  Clatawa  was  giving 
trouble ;  sometimes  he  reared  straight  up ;  then,  with 
a  few  bucking  jumps,  fought  for  his  head.  But  the 
sinewy  Snaky  Dick  was  always  his  master. 

Atop  the  little  buckskin  the  boy  was  scarce  dis- 
cernible at  that  distance,  as  he  sat  low  crouched 
over  his  horse's  wither.  Almost  like  an  equine 


OWNERS  UP  145 

statue  stood  Waster,  so  still,  so  sleepy-like,  that  those 
who  had  taken  long  odds  about  him  felt  a  depres- 
sion. 

Horned  Toad  was  scarcely  still  for  an  instant; 
his  wary  rider,  Texas,  was  keeping  him  on  his  toes 
— not  letting  him  chill  out;  but,  like  the  buckskin's 
jockey,  his  eye  was  always  on  the  man  with  the  gun. 
They  were  old  hands  at  the  game,  both  of  them; 
they  paid  little  attention  to  the  antics  of  Clatawa — 
the  starter  was  the  whole  works. 

Clatawa  had  broken  away  to  be  pulled  up  in  thirty 
yards.  Now,  as  he  came  back,  his  wily  rider 
wheeled  'him  suddenly  short  of  the  starting  line,  and 
the  thing  that  he  had  cunningly  planned  came  off. 
The  starter,  finger  on  trigger,  was  mentally  pulled 
out  of  himself  by .  this ;  his  finger  gripped  spas- 
modically; those  at  the  finish  post  saw  a  puff  of 
smoke,  and  a  white-nosed  horse,  well  out  in  front, 
off  to  a  flying  start. 

The  backers  of  Clatawa  yelled  in  delight. 

"Good  old  Snaky  Dickl"  some  one  cried. 

"Clatawa  beat  the  gun!"  another  roared. 

"They'll  never  catch  him! — never  catch  him! 
He'll  win  off  by  himself  1"  was  droned. 

Behind,  seemingly  together,  half  the  width  of  the 
track  separating  them,  galloped  the  black  and  the 
buckskin.  It  looked  as  if  Waster  raced  alone,  as 
if  he  had  lost  his  rider,  so  low  along  his  wither  and 
neck  lay  the  boy,  his  weight  eased  high  from  the 
short  stirrups.  A  hand  on  either  side  of  the  lean 
neck,  he  seemed  a  part  of  his  mount.  He  was  say- 


146  BULLDOG  CARNEY 

ing,  "Ste-a-dy  boy!  stead-d-dy  boy!  stead-d-dy  boy!" 
a  soft,  low  monotonous  sing-song  through  his 
clinched  teeth,  his  crouch  discounting  the  handicap 
of  a  strong  wind  that  was  blowing  down  the  track. 

He  could  feel  the  piece  of  smooth-moving  ma- 
chinery under  him  flatten  out  in  a  long  rhythmic 
stride,  and  his  heart  sang,  for  he  knew  it  was  the 
old  Waster  he  had  ridden  to  victory  more  than  once ; 
that  same  powerful  stride  that  ate  up  the  course  with 
little  friction.  He  was  rating  his  horse.  "Clatawa 
will  come  back,"  he  kept  thinking:  "Clatawa  will 
come  back!" 

He  himself,  who  had  ridden  hundreds  of  races, 
and  working  gallops  and  trials  beyond  count,  knew 
that  the  chestnut  was  rating  along  of  his  own  knowl- 
edge at  a  pace  that  would  cover  the  mile-and-a-quar- 
ter  in  under  2.12.  Methodically  he  was  running  his 
race.  Clatawa  was  sprinting;  he  had  cut  out  at  a 
gait  that  would  carry  him  a  mile,  if  he  could  keep 
it  up,  close  to  1.40.  Too  fast,  for  the  track  was 
slow,  being  turf. 

He  watched  Horned  Toad;  that  was  what  he  had 
to  beat,  he  knew. 

Texas  had  reasoned  somewhat  along  the  same 
lines;  but  his  brain  was  more  flighty.  As  Clatawa 
opened  a  gap  of  a  dozen  lengths,  running  like  a  wild 
horse,  Texas  grew  anxious;  he  shook  up  his  mount 
and  increased  his  pace. 

The  buckskin  reached  into  his  bridle  at  this,  as 

though  he  coaxed  for  a  little  more  speed,  but  the 

c  boy  called,  "Steady,  lad,  steady!"  and  let  Horned 


OWNERS  UP  117 

Toad  creep  away  a  length,  two  lengths;  and  always 
in  front  the  white-faced  horse,  Clatawa,  was  gal- 
loping on  and  on  with  a  high  deer-like  lope  that  was 
impressive. 

At  the  finish  post  people  were  acclaiming  the  name 
of  Clatawa.  They  could  see  the  little  buckskin 
trailing  fifteen  lengths  behind,  and  Horned  Toad 
was  between  the  two. 

Carney  watched  the  race  stoically.  It  was  being 
run  just  as  Billy  had  forecasted;  there  was  nothing 
in  this  to  shake  his  faith. 

Somebody  cried  out:  "Buckskin's  out  of  it  I  I'll 
lay  a  thousand  to  a  hundred  against  him." 

"I'll  take  it,"  Carney  declared. 

"I'll  lay  the  same,"  Snaggle  Tooth  yelled. 

"You're  on,"  came  from  Carney. 

And  even  as  they  bet  the  buckskin  had  lost  a 
length. 

Half-a-mile  had  been  covered  by  the  horses ;  three- 
quarters;  and  now  it  seemed  to  the  watchers  that 
the  black  was  creeping  up  on  Clatawa,  the  latter's 
rider,  who  had  been  almost  invisible,  riding  Indian 
fashion  lying  along  the  back  of  his  horse,  was  now 
in  view;  his  shoulders  were  up.  Surely  a  quirt  had 
switched  the  air  once. 

Yes,  the  Toad  was  creeping  up— his  rider  was 
making  his  run;  they  could  see  Texas's  arms  sway 
as  he  shook  up  his  mount. 

Why  was  the  boy  on  the  little  buckskin  riding  like 
one  asleep?  Had  he  lost  his  whip — had  he  given 
up  all  idea  of  winning? 


148  BULLDOG  CARNEY 

They  were  at  the  mile :  but  a  short  quarter  away. 

A  moan  went  up  from  many  throats,  mixed  with 
hoarse  curses,  for  Clatawa  was  plainly  in  trouble; 
he  was  floundering;  the  monkey  man  on  his  back 
was  playing  the  quirt  against  his  ribs,  the  gyrations 
checking  the  horse  instead  of  helping  him. 

And  the  Toad,  galloping  true  and  straight,  was 
but  a  length  behind. 

Watching  this  battle,  almost  in  hushed  silence, 
gasping  in  the  smothered  tenseness,  the  throng  went 
mentally  blind  to  the  little  buckskin.  Now  some- 
body cried: 

"God!  look  at  the  other  one  comin'!  Look  at 
him — lo-ook  at  him,  men!" 

His  voice  ran  up  the  scale  to  a  shrill  scream. 
Other  eyes  lengthened  their  vision,  and  their  owners 
gasped. 

Clatawa  seemed  to  be  runnng  backwards,  so  fast 
the  little  buckskin  raced  by  him  as  he  dropped  out  of 
it,  beaten. 

And  Horned  Toad  was  but  three  lengths  in  front 
now.  Three  lengths?  It  was  two — it  was  one. 
Now  the  buckskin's  nose  rose  and  fell  on  the  black's 
quarters;  now  the  mouse-coloured  muzzle  was  at  his 
girth;  now  their  heads  rose  and  fell  together,  as, 
stride  for  stride,  they  battled  for  the  lead:  Texas 
driving  his  mount  with  whip  and  spur,  cutting  the 
flanks  of  his  horse  with  cruel  blows  in  a  frantic  en- 
deavor to  lift  him  home  a  winner. 

How  still  the  boy  sat  Waster;  how  well  he  must 
know  that  he  had  the  race  won  to  nurse  him  like  a 


OWNERS  UP  149 

babe.  No  swaying  of  the  body  to  throw  him  out 
of  stride;  no  flash  of  the  whip  to  startle  him — to 
break  his  heart;  the  brave  little  horse  was  doing  it 
all  himself.  And  the  boy,  creature  of  brains,  was 
wise  enough  to  sit  still. 

They  could  hear  the  pound  of  hoofs  on  the  turf 
like  the  beat  of  twin  drums ;  they  could  see  the  eager 
strife  in  the  faces  of  the  two  brave,  stout-hearted 
thoroughbreds:  and  then  the  buckskin's  head  nod- 
ding in  front;  his  lean  neck  was  clear  of  the  black 
and  he  was  galloping  straight  as  an  arrow. 

"The  Toad  is  beat!"  went  up  from  a  dozen 
throats.  "The  buckskin  wins — the  buckskin  wins  I" 
became  a  clamor. 

Pandemonium  broke  loose.  It  was  stilled  by  a  de- 
moniac cry,  a  curse,  from  some  strong-voiced  man. 
The  black  had  swerved  full  in  on  to  the  buckskin; 
they  saw  Texas  clutch  at  the  rider.  Curses;  cries 
of  "Foul!"  rose;  it  was  an  angry  roar  like  caged 
animals  at  war. 

Carney,  watching,  found  his  fingers  rubbing  the 
butt  of  his  gun.  The  buckskin  had  been  thrown  out 
of  his  stride  in  the  collision:  he  stumbled;  his  head 
shot  down — almost  to  his  knees  he  went:  then  he 
was  galloping  again,  the  two  horses  locked  together. 

Fifty  feet  away  from  the  finish  post  they  were 
locked:  twenty  feet. 

The  cries  of  the  throng  were  hushed;  they  scarce 
breathed. 

Locked  together  they  passed  the  post,  the  buck- 
skin's neck  in  front.  Their  speed  had  been  checked; 


150  BULLDOG  CARNEY 

in  a-  dozen  yards  they  were  stopped,  and  the  boy 
pitched  headlong  from  the  buckskin's  back,  one  foot 
still  tangled  in  the  martingale  of  Horned  Toad. 

Men  closed  in  frantically.  A  man — it  was 
Oregon — twisted  Carney's  gun  skyward  crying: 
]"Leave  that  coyote  to  the  boys." 

He  was  right.  In  vain  Iron  Jaw  and  Death-on- 
the-trail  sought  to  battle  back  the  tense-faced  men 
who  reached  for  Texas.  Iron  Jaw  and  Death-on- 
the-trail  were  swallowed  up  in  a  seething  mass  of 
clamoring  devils.  Gun  play  was  out  of  the  question : 
humans  were  like  herrings  packed  in  a  barrel. 

Major  Cummings,  cool  and  quick-witted,  had 
called  shrilly  "Troopers  I"  and  a  little  cordon  of 
men  in  cavalry  uniform  had  Texas  in  the  centre  of 
a  guarding  circle. 

Carney,  on  his  knees  beside  the  boy,  was  guard- 
ing the  lad  from  the  mad,  trampling,  fighting  men; 
striking  with  the  butt  of  his  pistol.  And  then  a 
woman's  shrill  voice  rose  clear  above  the  tumult, 
crying : 

"Back,  you  cowards — you  brutes:  the  boy  is  dy- 
ing: give  him  room — give  him  air!" 

Her  bleached  hair  was  down  her  back;  her  silk 
finery  was  torn  like  a  bartered  flag;  for  she  had 
fought  her  way  through  the  crowd  to  the  boy's  side. 

"Don't  lift  him — he's  got  a  hemorrhage!"  she 
shrilled,  as  Carney  put  his  arms  beneath  the  little 
lad.  "Drive  the  men  back — give  him  air!"  she 
commanded;  and  turned  Billy  flat  on  his  back,  tear- 
ing from  her  shoulders  a  rich  scarf  to  place  beneath 


OWNERS  UP  151 

his  head.  The  lad's  lips,  coated  with  red  froth, 
twitched  in  a  weak  smile;  he  reached  out  a  thin 
hand,  and  Molly,  sitting  at  his  head,  drew  it  into 
her  lap. 

"Just  lie  still,  Billy.  You'll  be  all  right,  boy; 
just  lie  still;  don't  speak,"  she  admonished. 

She  could  hear  the  lad's  throat  click,  click,  click 
at  each  breath,  the  ominous  tick  tick,  of  "the  bug's" 
work;  and  at  each  half-stifled  cough  the  red-tinged 
yeasty  sputum  bubbled  up  from  the  life  well. 

The  fighting  clamor  was  dying  down;  shame- 
faced men  were  widening  the  circle  about  the  lad 
and  Molly. 

The  judge's  voice  was  heard  saying: 

"The  buckskin  won  the  race,  gentlemen."  And 
he  added,  strong  condemnation  in  his  voice:  "If 
Horned  Toad  had  been  first  I  would  have  disquali- 
fied him:  it  was  a  deliberate  foul." 

The  cavalry  men  had  got  Texas  away,  mounted, 
and  rushed  him  out  to  the  barracks  for  protection. 

"Get  a  stretcher,  someone,  please,"  Molly  asked 
of  the  crowd.  "Billy  will  be  all  right,  but  we  must 
keep  him  flat  on  his  back. 

"You'll  be  all  right,  Billy,"  she  added,  bending 
her  head  till  her  lips  touched  the  boy's  forehead,  and 
her  mass  of  peroxided  hair  hid  the  hot  tears  that 
fell  from  the  blue  eyes  that  many  thought  only  ca- 
pable of  cupidity  and  guile. 


IV 
THE  GOLD  WOLF 

ALL  day  long  Bulldog  Carney  had  found,  where 
the  trail  was  soft,  the  odd  imprint  of  that  goblined 
inturned  hoof.  All  day  in  the  saddle,  riding  a  trail 
that  winds  in  and  out  among  rocks,  and  trees,  and 
cliffs  monotonously  similar,  the  hush  of  the  everlast- 
ing hills  holding  in  subjection  man's  soul,  the  tower- 
ing giants  of  embattled  rocks  thrusting  up  towards 
God's  dome  pigmying  to  nothingness  that  rat,  a 
man,  produces  a  comatose  condition  of  mind;  man 
becomes  a  child,  incapable  of  little  beyond  the  recog- 
nition of  trivial  things;  the  erratic  swoop  of  a  bird, 
the  sudden  roar  of  a  cataract,  the  dirge-like  sigh  of 
wind  through  the  harp  of  a  giant  pine. 

And  so,  curiously,  Bulldog's  fancy  had  toyed  aim- 
lessly with  the  history  of  the  cayuse  that  owned  that 
inturned  left  forefoot.  Always  where  the  hoof's 
imprint  lay  was  the  flat  track  of  a  miner's  boot,  the 
hob  nails  denting  the  black  earth  with  stolid  persist- 
ency. But  the  owner  of  the  miner's  boot  seemed  of 
little  moment;  it  was  the  abnormal  hoof  that,  by  a 
strange  perversity,  haunted  Carney. 

The  man  was  probably  a  placer  miner  coming 
down  out  of  the  Eagle  Hills,  leading  a  pack  pony 

152 


THE  GOLD  WOLF  153 

that  carried  his  duffel  and,  perhaps,  a  small  fortune 
in  gold.  Of  course,  like  Carney,  he  was  heading 
for  steel,  for  the  town  of  Bucking  Horse. 

Toward  evening,  as  Carney  rode  down  a  winding 
trail  that  led  to  the  ford  of  Singing  Water,  round- 
ing an  abrupt  turn  the  mouth  of  a  huge  cave  yawned 
in  the  side  of  a  cliff  away  to  his  left.  Something  of 
life  had  melted  into  its  dark  shadow  that  had  the 
semblance  of  a  man;  or  it  might  have  been  a  bear 
or  a  wolf.  Lower  down  in  the  valley  that  was 
called  the  Valley  of  the  Grizzley's  Bridge,  his  buck- 
skin shied,  and  with  a  snort  of  fear  left  the  trail  and 
elliptically  came  back  to  it  twenty  yards  beyond. 

In  the  centre  of  the  ellipse,  on  the  trail,  stood  a 
gaunt  form,  a  huge  dog-wolf.  He  was  a  sinister 
figure,  his  snarling  lips  curled  back  from  strong  yel- 
low fangs,  his  wide  powerful  head  low  hung,  and 
the  black  bristles  on  his  back  erect  in  challenge. 

The  whole  thing  was  weird,  uncanny;  a  single 
wolf  to  stand  his  ground  in  daylight  was  unusual. 

Instinctively  Bulldog  reined  in  the  buckskin,  and 
half  turning  in  the  saddle,  with  something  of  a  shud- 
der, searched  the  ground  at  the  wolf's  feet  dreading 
to  find  something.  But  there  was  nothing. 

The  dog-wolf,  with  a  snarling  twist  of  his  head, 
sprang  into  the  bushes  just  as  Carney  dropped  a 
hand  to  his  gun;  his  quick  eye  had  seen  the  move- 
ment. 

Carney  had  meant  to  camp  just  beyond  the  ford 
of  Singing  Water,  but  the  usually  placid  buckskin 
was  fretful,  nervous. 


154-  BULLDOG  CARNEY 

A  haunting  something  was  in  the  air;  Carney,  him- 
self, felt  it.  The  sudden  apparition  of  the  wolf 
could  not  account  for  this  mental  unrest,  either  in 
man  or  beast,  for  they  were  both  inured  to  the  trail, 
and  a  wolf  meant  little  beyond  a  skulking  beast  that 
a  pistol  shot  would  drive  away. 

High  above  the  rider  towered  Old  Squaw  Moun- 
tain. It  was  like  a  battered  feudal  castle,  on  its 
upper  reaches  turret  and  tower  and  bastion  catching 
vagrant  shafts  of  gold  and  green,  as,  beyond,  in  the 
far  west,  a  flaming  sun  slid  down  behind  the  Sel- 
kirks.  Where  he  rode  in  the  twisted  valley  a  chill 
had  struck  the  air,  suggesting  vaults,  dungeons;  the 
giant  ferns  hung  heavy  like  the  plumes  of  knights 
drooping  with  the  death  dew.  A  reaching  stretch 
of  salmon  bushes  studded  with  myriad  berries  that 
gleamed  like  topaz  jewels  hedged  on  both  sides  the 
purling,  frothing  stream  that  still  held  the  green  tint 
of  its  glacier  birth. 

Many  times  in  his  opium  running  Carney  had 
swung  along  this  wild  trail  almost  unconscious  of 
the  way,  his  mind  travelling  far  afield ;  now  back  to 
the  old  days  of  club  life ;  to  the  years  of  army  rou- 
tine; to  the  bright  and  happy  scenes  where  rich- 
gowned  women  and  cultured  men  laughed  and  ban- 
tered with  him.  At  times  it  was  the  newer  rough 
life  of  the  West;  the  ever-present  warfare  of  man 
against  man;  the  yesterday  where  he  had  won,  or 
the  to-morrow  where  he  might  cast  a  losing  hazard 
— where  the  dice  might  turn  groggily  from  a  six- 
spotted  side  to  a  deuce,  and  the  thrower  take  a  fall. 


THE  GOLD  WOLF  155 

But  to-night,  as  he  rode,  something  of  depression, 
of  a  narrow  environment,  of  an  evil  one,  was  astride 
the  withers  of  his  horse;  the  mountains  seemed  to 
close  in  and  oppress  him.  The  buckskin,  too,  swung 
his  heavy  lop  ears  irritably  back  and  forth,  back  and 
forth.  Sometimes  one  ear  was  pricked  forward  as 
though  its  owner  searched  the  beyond,  the  now 
glooming  valley  that,  at  a  little  distance,  was  but  a 
blur,  the  other  ear  held  backward  as  though  it 
would  drink  in  the  sounds  of  pursuit. 

Pursuit!  that  was  the  very  thing;  instinctively  the 
rider  turned  in  his  saddle,  one  hand  on  the  horn, 
and  held  his  piercing  gray  eyes  on  the  back  trail, 
searching  for  the  embodiment  of  this  phantasy.  The 
unrest  had  developed  that  far  into  conception,  some- 
thing evil  hovered  on  his  trail,  man  or  beast.  But 
he  saw  nothing  but  the  swaying  kaleidoscope  of  tum- 
bling forest  shadows;  rocks  that,  half  gloomed,  took 
fantastic  forms ;  bushes  that  swayed  with  the  rolling 
gait  of  a  grizzly. 

The  buckskin  had  quickened  his  pace  as  if,  tired 
though  he  was,  he  would  go  on  beyond  that  valley 
of  fear  before  they  camped. 

Where  the  trail  skirted  the  brink  of  a  cliff  that 
had  a  drop  of  fifty  feet,  Carney  felt  the  horse  trem- 
ble, and  saw  him  hug  the  inner  wall;  and,  when  they 
had  rounded  the  point,  the  buckskin,  with  a  snort  of 
relief,  clamped  the  snaffle  in  his  teeth  and  broke  into 
a  canter. 

"I  wonder — by  Jove!"  and  Bulldog,  pulling  the 


156  BULLDOG  CARNEY 

buckskin  to  a  stand,  slipped  from  his  back,  and 
searched  the  black-loamed  trail. 

"I  believe  you're  right,  Pat,"  he  said,  addressing 
the  buckskin;  "something  happened  back  there." 

He  walked  for  a  dozen  paces  ahead  of  the  horse, 
his  keen  gray  eyes  on  the  earth.  He  stopped  and 
rubbed  his  chin,  thinking — thinking  aloud. 

"There  are  tracks,  Patsy  boy — moccasins;  but 
we've  lost  our  gunboat-footed  friend.  What  do  you 
make  of  that,  Patsy — gone  over  the  cliff  ?  But  that 
damn  wolf's  pugs  are  here;  he's  travelled  up  and 
down.  By  gad !  two  of  them !" 

Then,  in  silence,  Carney  moved  along  the  way, 
searching  and  pondering;  cast  into  a  curious,  super- 
stitious mood  that  he  could  not  shake  off.  The  in- 
turned  hoof-print  had  vanished,  so  the  owner  of  the 
big  feet  that  carried  hob-nailed  boots  did  not  ride. 

Each  time  that  Carney  stopped  to  bend  down  in 
study  of  the  trail  the  buckskin  pushed  at  him  fret- 
fully with  his  soft  muzzle  and  rattled  the  snaffle 
against  his  bridle  teeth. 

At  last  Carney  stroked  the  animal's  head  reassur- 
ingly, saying:  "You're  quite  right,  pal — it's  none 
of  our  business.  Besides,  we're  a  pair  of  old  gran- 
nies imagining  things." 

But  as  he  lifted  to  the  saddle,  Bulldog,  like  the 
horse,  felt  a  compelling  inclination  to  go  beyond  the 
Valley  of  the  Grizzley's  Bridge  to  camp  for  the 
night. 

Even  as  they  climbed  to  a  higher  level  of  flat 
land,  from  back  on  the  trail  that  was  now  lost  in  the 


THE  GOLD  WOLF  157 

deepening  gloom,  came  the  howl  of  a  wolf;  and 
then,  from  somewhere  beyond  floated  the  answering 
call  of  the  dog-wolf's  mate — a  whimpering,  hungry 
note  in  her  weird  wail. 

"Bleat,  damn  you!"  Carney  cursed  softly;  "if  you 
bother  us  I'll  sit  by  with  a  gun  and  watch  Patsy  boy 
kick  you  to  death." 

As  if  some  genii  of  the  hills  had  taken  up  and 
sent  on  silent  waves  his  challenge,  there  came  filter- 
ing through  the  pines  and  birch  a  snarling  yelp. 

"By  gad!"  and  Carney  cocked  his  ear,  pulling  the 
horse  to  a  stand. 

Then  in  the  heavy  silence  of  the  wooded  hills  he 
pushed  on  again  muttering,  "There's  something 
wrong  about  that  wolf  howl — it's  different." 

Where  a  big  pine  had  showered  the  earth  with 
cones  till  the  covering  was  soft,  and  deep,  and 
springy,  and  odorous  like  a  perfumed  mattress  of 
velvet,  he  hesitated;  but  the  buckskin,  in  the  finer 
animal  reasoning,  pleaded  with  little  impatient  steps 
and  shakes  of  the  head  that  they  push  on. 

Carney  yielded,  saying  softly:  "Go  on,  kiddie 
boy;  peace  of  mind  is  good  dope  for  a  sleep." 

So  it  was  ten  o'clock  when  the  two  travellers,  Car- 
ney and  Pat,  camped  in  an  open,  where  the  moon, 
like  a  silver  mirror,  bathed  the  earth  in  reassuring 
light.  Here  the  buckskin  had  come  to  a  halt,  filled 
his  lungs  with  the  perfumed  air  in  deep  draughts, 
and  turning  his  head  half  round  had  waited  for  his 
partner  to  dismount. 

It  was  curious  this  man  of  steel  nerve  and  flaw- 


158  BULLDOG  CARNEY 

less  courage  feeling  at  all  the  guidance  of  unknown 
threatenings,  unexplainable  disquietude.  He  did  not 
even  build  a  fire;  but  choosing  a  place  where  the 
grass  was  rich  he  spread  his  blanket  beside  the 
horse's  picket  pin. 

Bulldog's  life  had  provided  him  with  different 
sleeping  moods;  it  was  a  curious  subconscious  mat- 
ter of  mental  adjustment  before  he  slipped  away 
from  the  land  of  knowing.  Sometimes  he  could 
sleep  like  a  tired  laborer,  heavily,  unresponsive  to 
the  noise  of  turmoil;  at  other  times,  when  deep 
sleep  might  cost  him  his  life,  his  senses  hovered  so 
close  to  consciousness  that  a  dried  leaf  scurrying 
before  the  wind  would  call  him  to  alert  action.  So 
now  he  lay  on  his  blanket,  sometimes  over  the  bor- 
der of  spirit  land,  and  sometimes  conscious  of  the 
buckskin's  pull  at  the  crisp  grass.  Once  he  came 
wide  awake,  with  no  movement  but  the  lifting  of  his 
eyelids.  He  had  heard  nothing;  and  now  the  gray 
eyes,  searching  the  moonlit  plain,  saw  nothing.  Yet 
within  was  a  full  consciousness  that  there  was  some- 
thing— not  close,  but  hovering  there  beyond. 

The  buckskin  also  knew.  He  had  been  lying 
down,  but  with  a  snort  of  discontent  his  f orequarters 
went  up  and  he  canted  to  his  feet  with  a  spring  of 
wariness.  Perhaps  it  was  the  wolves. 

But  after  a  little  Carney  knew  it  was  not  the 
wolves ;  they,  cunning  devils,  would  have  circled  be- 
yond his  vision,  and  the  buckskin,  with  his  delicate 
scent,  would  have  swung  his  head  the  full  circle  of 


THE  GOLD  WOLF  159 

the  compass;  but  he  stood  facing  down  the  back 
trail;  the  thing  was  there,  watching. 

After  that  Carney  slept  again,  lighter  if  possible, 
thankful  that  he  had  yielded  to  the  wisdom  of  the 
horse  and  sought  the  open. 

Half  a  dozen  times  there  was  this  gentle  transi- 
tion from  the  sleep  that  was  hardly  a  sleep,  to  a  full 
acute  wakening.  And  then  the  paling  sky  told  that 
night  was  slipping  off  to  the  western  ranges,  and 
that  beyond  the  Rockies,  to  the  east,  day  was  sleepily 
travelling  in  from  the  plains. 

The  horse  was  again  feeding;  and  Carney,  shak- 
ing off  the  lethargy  of  his  broken  sleep,  gathered 
some  dried  stunted  bushes,  and,  building  a  little  fire, 
made  a  pot  of  tea;  confiding  to  the  buckskin  as  he 
mounted  that  he  considered  himself  no  end  of  a 
superstitious  ass  to  have  bothered  over  a  nothing. 

Not  far  from  where  Carney  had  camped  the  trail 
he  followed  turned  to  the  left  to  sweep  around  a 
mountain,  and  here  it  joined,  for  a  time,  the  trail 
running  from  Fort  Steel  west  toward  the  Kootenay. 
The  sun,  topping  the  Rockies,  had  lifted  from  the 
earth  the  graying  shadows,  and  now  Carney  saw,  as 
he  thought,  the  hoof-prints  of  the  day  before. 

There  was  a  feeling  of  relief  with  this  discovery. 
There  had  been  a  morbid  disquiet  in  his  mind;  a 
mental  conviction  that  something  had  happened  that 
intoed  cayuse  and  his  huge-footed  owner.  Now  all 
the  weird  fancies  of  the  night  had  been  just  a  vagary 
of  mind.  Where  the  trail  was  earthed,  holding  clear 
impressions,  he  dismounted,  and  walked  ahead  of 


160  BULLDOG  CARNEY 

the  buckskin,  reading  the  lettered  clay.  Here  and 
there  was  imprinted  a  moccasined  foot;  once  there 
was  the  impression  of  boots ;  but  they  were  not  the 
huge  imprints  of  hob-nailed  soles.  They  showed 
that  a  man  had  dismounted,  and  then  mounted  again ; 
and  the  cayuse  had  not  an  inturned  left  forefoot; 
also  the  toe  wall  of  one  hind  foot  was  badly  broken. 
His  stride  was  longer,  too;  he  did  not  walk  with 
the  short  step  of  a  pack  pony. 

The  indefinable  depression  took  possession  of 
Bulldog  again ;  he  tried  to  shake  it  off — it  was  child- 
ish. The  huge-footed  one  perhaps  was  a  prospector, 
and  had  wandered  up  into  some  one  of  the  gulches 
looking  for  gold.  That  was  objecting  Reason  for- 
mulating an  hypothesis. 

Then  presently  Carney  discovered  the  confusing 
element  of  the  same  cayuse  tracks  heading  the  other 
way,  as  if  the  man  on  horseback  had  travelled  both 
up  and  down  the  trail. 

Where  the  Bucking  Horse  trail  left  the  Kootenay 
trail  after  circling  the  mountain,  Carney  saw  that 
the  hoof  prints  continued  toward  Kootenay.  And 
there  were  a  myriad  of  tracks ;  many  mounted  men 
had  swung  from  the  Bucking  Horse  trail  to  the 
Kootenay  path ;  they  had  gone  and  returned,  for  the 
hoof  prints  that  toed  toward  Bucking  Horse  lay  on 
top. 

This  also  was  strange ;  men  did  not  ride  out  from 
the  sleepy  old  town  in  a  troop  like  cavalry.  There 
was  but  one  explanation,  the  explanation  of  the 
West — those  mounted  men  had  ridden  after  some- 


THE  GOLD  WOLF  161 

body — had  trailed  somebody  who  was  wanted  quick. 

This  crescendo  to  his  associated  train  of  thought 
obliterated  mentally  the  goblin-footed  cayuse,  the 
huge  hob-nailed  boot,  the  something  at  the  cliff,  the 
hovering  oppression  of  the  night — everything. 

Carney  closed  his  mind  to  the  torturing  riddle  and 
rode,  sometimes  humming  an  Irish  ballad  of  Man- 
gin's. 

It  was  late  afternoon  when  he  rode  into  Bucking 
Horse;  and  Bucking  Horse  was  in  a  ferment. 

Seth  Long's  hotel,  the  Gold  Nugget,  was  the  caul- 
dron in  which  the  waters  of  unrest  seethed. 

A  lynching  was  in  a  state  of  almost  completion, 
with  Jeanette  Holt's  brother,  Harry,  elected  to  play 
the  leading  part  of  the  lynched.  Through  the  defer- 
ence paid  to  his  well-known  activity  when  hostile 
events  were  afoot,  Carney  was  cordially  drawn  into 
the  maelstrom  of  ugly-tempered  men. 

Jeanette's  brother  may  be  said  to  have  suffered 
from  a  preponderance  of  opinion  against  him,  for 
only  Jeanette,  and  with  less  energy,  Seth  Long,  were 
on  his  side.  All  Bucking  Horse,  angry  Bucking 
Horse,  was  for  stringing  him  up  tout  de  suite.  The 
times  were  propitious  for  this  entertainment,  for 
Sergeant  Black,  of  the  Mounted  Police,  was  over  at 
Fort  Steel,  or  somewhere  else  on  patrol,  and  the 
law  was  in  the  keeping  of  the  mob. 

Ostensibly  Carney  ranged  himself  on  the  side  of 
law  and  order.  That  is  what  he  meant  when,  lean- 
ing carelessly  against  the  Nugget  bar,  one  hand  on 


162  BULLDOG  CARNEY 

his  hip,  chummily  close  to  the  butt  of  his  six-gun,  he 
said: 

"This  town  had  got  a  pretty  good  name,  as  towns 
go  in  the  mountains,  and  my  idea  of  a  man  that's  too 
handy  at  the  lynch  game  is  that  he's  a  pretty  poor 
sport." 

"How's  that,  Bulldog?"  Kootenay  Jim  snapped. 

"He's  a  poor  sport,"  Carney  drawled,  "because 
he's  got  a  hundred  to  one  the  best  of  it — first,  last, 
and  always;  he  isn't  in  any  danger  when  he  starts, 
because  it's  a  hundred  men  to  one  poor  devil,  who, 
generally,  isn't  armed,  and  he  knows  that  at  the 
finish  his  mates  will  perjure  themselves  to  save  their 
own  necks.  I've  seen  one  or  two  lynch  mobs  and 
they  were  generally  egged  on  by  men  who  were 
yellow." 

Carney's  gray  eyes  looked  out  over  the  room  full 
of  angry  men  with  a  quiet  thoughtful  steadiness  that 
forced  home  the  conviction  that  he  was  wording  a 
logic  he  would  demonstrate.  No  other  man  in  that 
room  could  have  stood  up  against  that  plank  bar 
and  declared  himself  without  being  called  quick. 

"You  hear  fust  what  this  rat  done,  Bulldog,  then 
we'll  hear  what  you've  got  to  say,"  Kootenay 
growled. 

"That's  well  spoken,  Kootenay,"  Bulldog  an- 
swered. "I'm  fresh  in  off  the  trail,  and  perhaps  I'm 
quieter  than  the  rest  of  you,  but  first,  being  fresh  in 
off  the  trail,  there's  a  little  custom  to  be  observed." 

With  a  sweep  of  his  hand  Carney  waved  a  salute 
to  a  line  of  bottles  behind  the  bar. 


THE  GOLD  WOLF  163 

Jeanette,  standing  in  the  open  door  that  led  from 
the  bar  to  the  dining-room,  gripping  the  door  till 
her  nails  sank  into  the  pine,  felt  hot  tears  gush  into 
her  eyes.  How  wise,  how  cool,  this  brave  Bulldog 
that  she  loved  so  well.  She  had  had  no  chance  to 
plead  with  him  for  help.  He  had  just  come  into  that 
murder-crazed  throng,  and  the  words  had  been 
hurled  at  him  from  a  dozen  mouths  that  her  brother 
Harry — Harry  the  waster,  the  no-good,  the  gam- 
bler— had  been  found  to  be  the  man  who  had  mur- 
dered returning  miners  on  the  trail  for  their  gold, 
and  that  they  were  going  to  string  him  up. 

And  now  there  he  stood,  her  god  of  a  man,  Bull- 
dog Carney,  ranged  on  her  side,  calm,  and  brave. 
It  was  the  first  glint  of  hope  since  they  had  brought 
her  brother  in,  bound  to  the  back  of  a  cayuse.  She 
had  pushed  her  way  amongst  the  men,  but  they  were 
like  wolves;  she  had  pleaded  and  begged  for  delay, 
but  the  evidence  was  so  overwhelming;  absolutely 
hopeless  it  had  appeared.  But  now  something  whis- 
pered "Hope". 

It  was  curious  the  quieting  effect  that  single  drink 
at  the  bar  had;  the  magnetism  of  Carney  seemed  to 
envelop  the  men,  to  make  them  reasonable.  Ordi- 
narily they  were  reasonable  men.  Bulldog  knew 
this,  and  he  played  the  card  of  reason. 

For  the  two  or  three  gun  men — Kootenay  Jim, 
John  of  Slocan,  and  Denver  Ike — Carney  had  his 
own  terrible  personality  and  his  six-gun;  he  could 
deal  with  those  three  toughs  if  necessary. 


164.  BULLDOG  CARNEY 

"Now  tell  me,  boys,  what  started  this  hellery," 
Carney  asked  when  they  had  drunk. 

The  story  was  fired  at  him ;  if  a  voice  hesitated, 
another  took  up  the  narrative. 

Miners  returning  from  the  gold  field  up  in  the 
Eagle  Hills  had  mysteriously  disappeared,  never 
turning  up  at  Bucking  Horse.  A  man  would  have 
left  the  Eagle  Hills,  and  somebody  drifting  in  from 
the  same  place  later  on,  would  ask  for  him  at  Buck- 
ing Horse — nobody  had  seen  him. 

Then  one  after  another  two  skeletons  had  been 
found  on  the  trail;  the  bodies  had  been  devoured 
by  wolves. 

"And  wolves  don't  eat  gold — not  what  you'd  no- 
tice, as  a  steady  chuck,"  Kootenay  Jim  yelped. 

"Men  wolves  do,"  Carney  thrust  back,  and  his 
gray  eyes  said  plainly,  "That's  your  food,  Jim." 

"Meanin'  what  by  that,  pard?"  Kootenay  snarled, 
his  face  evil  in  a  threat. 

"Just  what  the  words  convey — you  sort  them  out, 
Kootenay." 

But  Miner  Graham  interposed.  "We  got  kinder 
leary  about  this  wolf  game,  Carney,  'cause  they  ain't 
bothered  nobody  else  'cept  men  packin'  in  their 
winnin's  from  the  Eagle  Hills;  and  four  days  ago 
Caribou  Dave — here  he  is  sittin'  right  here — he  ar- 
rives packin'  Fourteen-foot  Johnson — that  is,  all 
that's  left  of  Fourteen-foot." 

"Johnson  was  my  pal,"  Caribou  Dave  interrupted, 
a  quaver  in  his  voice,  "and  he  leaves  the  Eagle  Nest 
two  days  ahead  of  me,  packin'  a  big  clean-up  of  gold 


THE  GOLD  WOLF  165 

on  a  cayuse.  He  was  goin'  to  mooch  aroun'  Buckin' 
Horse  till  I  creeps  in  afoot,  then  we  was  goin'  out. 
We  been  together  a  good  many  years,  ol'  Fourteen- 
foot  and  me." 

Something  seemed  to  break  in  Caribou's  voice  and 
Graham  added:  "Dave  finds  his  mate  at  the  foot  of 
a  cliff." 

Carney  started;  and  instinctively  Kootenay's  hand 
dropped  to  his  gun,  thinking  something  was  going 
to  happen. 

"I  dunno  just  what  makes  me  look  there  for 
Fourteen-foot,  Bulldog,"  Caribou  Dave  explained. 
"I  was  comin'  along  the  trail  seein'  the  marks  of 
'em  damn  big  feet  of  hisn,  and  they  looked  good  to 
me — I  guess  I  was  gettin'  kinder  homesick  for  him; 
when  I'd  camp  I'd  go  out  and  paw  'em  tracks;  'twas 
kinder  like  shakin'  hands.  We  been  together  a  good 
many  years,  buckin'  the  mountains  and  the  plains, 
and  sometimes  havin'  a  bit  of  fun.  I'm  comin' 
along,  as  I  says,  and  I  sees  a  kinder  scrimmage  like, 
as  if  his  old  tan-colored  cayuse  had  got  gay,  or  took 
the  blind  staggers,  or  somethin' ;  there  was  a  lot  of 
tracks.  But  I  give  up  thinkin'  it  out,  'cause  I  knowed 
if  the  damn  cayuse  had  jack-rabbited  any,  Fourteen- 
foot'd  pick  him  and  his  load  up  and  carry  him. 
Then  I  see  some  wolf  tracks — dang  near  as  big  as  a 
steer's  they  was — and  I  figger  Fourteen-foot's  had  a 
set-to  with  a  couple  of  'em  timber  coyotes  and 
lammed  hell's  delight  out  of  'em,  'cause  he  could  Ve 
done  it.  Then  I'm  follerin'  the  cayuse's  trail  agen, 
pickin'  it  up  here  and  there,  and  all  at  onct  it  jumps 


166  BULLDOG  CARNEY 

me  that  the  big  feet  is  missin'.  Sure  I  natural  figger 
Johnson's  got  mussed  up  a  bit  with  the  wolves  and 
is  ridin';  but  there's  the  dang  wolf  tracks  agen. 
And  some  moccasin  feet  has  been  passierin'  along, 
too.  Then  the  hoss  tracks  cuts  out  just  same's  if 
he'd  spread  his  wings  and  gone  up  in  the  air — they 
just  ain't." 

"Then  Caribou  gets  a  hunch  and  goes  back  and 
peeks  over  the  cliff,"  Miner  Graham  added,  for  old 
David  had  stopped  speaking  to  bite  viciously  at  a 
black  plug  of  tobacco  to  hide  his  feelings. 

"I  dunno  what  made  me  do  it,"  Caribou  inter- 
rupted; "it  was  just  same's  Fourteen-foot's  callin' 
me.  There  ain't  nobody  can  make  me  believe  that 
if  two  men  paddles  together  twenty  years,  had  their 
little  fights,  and  show-downs,  and  still  sticks,  that 
one  of  'em  is  going  to  cut  clean  out  just  'cause  he 
goes  over  the  Big  Divide — 'tain't  natural.  I  tell 
you,  boys,  Fourteen-foot's  callin'  me — that's  what 
he  is,  when  I  goes  back." 

Then  Graham  had  to  take  up  the  narrative,  for 
Caribou,  heading  straight  for  the  bar,  pointed 
dumbly  at  a  black  bottle. 

"Yes,  Carney,"  Graham  said,  "Caribou  packs  into 
Buckin'  Horse  on  his  back  what  was  left  of  Four- 
teen-foot, and  there  wasn't  no  gold  and  no  sign  of 
the  cayuse.  Then  we  swarms  out,  a  few  of  us,  and 
picks  up  cayuse  tracks  most  partic'lar  where  the 
Eagle  Hills  trail  hits  the  trail  for  Kootenay.  And 
when  we  overhaul  the  cayuse  that's  layin'  down  'em 


THE  GOLD  WOLF  167 

tracks  it's  Fourteen-foot's  hawse,  and  a-ridin'  him 
is  Harry  Holt." 

"And  he's  got  the  gold  you  was  talkin'  'bout 
wolves  eatin',  Bulldog,"  Kootenay  Jim  said  with  a 
sneer.  "He  was  hangin'  'round  here  busted,  cleaned 
to  the  bone,  and  there  he's  a-ridin'  Fourteen-foot's 
cayuse,  with  lots  of  gold." 

"That's  the  whole  case  then,  is  it,  boys?''  Carney 
asked  quietly. 

"Ain't  it  enough?"  Kootenay  Jim  snarled. 

"No,  it  isn't.  You  were  tried  for  murder  once 
yourself,  Kootenay,  and  you  got  off,  though  every- 
body knew  it  was  the  dead  man's  money  in  your 
pocket.  You  got  off  because  nobody  saw  you  kill 
the  man,  and  the  circumstantial  evidence  gave  you 
the  benefit  of  the  doubt." 

"I  ain't  bein'  tried  for  this,  Bulldog.  Your 
bringin'  up  old  scores  might  get  you  in  wrong." 

"You're  not  being  tried,  Kootenay,  but  another 
man  is,  and  I  say  he's  got  to  have  a  fair  chance. 
You  bring  him  here,  boys,  and  let  me  hear  his  story; 
that's  only  fair,  men  amongst  men.  Because  I  give 
you  fair  warning,  boys,  if  this  lynching  goes  through, 
and  you're  in  wrong,  I'm  going  to  denounce  you ;  not 
one  of  you  will  get  away — not  one!" 

"We'll  bring  him,  Bulldog,"  Graham  said;  "what 
you  say  is  only  fair,  but  swing  he  will." 

Jeanette's  brother  had  been  locked  in  the  pen  in 
the  log  police  barracks.  He  was  brought  into  the 
Gold  Nugget,  and  his  defence  was  what  might  be 
called  powerfully  weak.  It  was  simply  a  statement 


168  BULLDOG  CARNEY 

that  he  had  bought  the  cayuse  from  an  Indian  on  the 
trail  outside  Bucking  Horse.  He  refused  to  say 
where  he  had  got  the  gold,  simply  declaring  that  he 
had  killed  nobody,  had  never  seen  Fourteen-foot 
Johnson,  and  knew  nothing  about  the  murder. 

Something  in  the  earnestness  of  the  man  convinced 
Carney  that  he  was  innocent.  However,  that  was, 
so  far  as  Carney's  action  was  concerned,  a  minor 
matter;  it  was  Jeanette's  brother,  and  he  was  going 
to  save  him  from  being  lynched  if  he  had  to  fight 
the  roomful  of  men — there  was  no  doubt  whatever 
about  that  in  his  mind. 

"I  can't  say,  boys,"  Carney  began,  "that  you  can 
be  blamed  for  thinking  you've  got  the  right  man." 

"That's  what  we  figgered,"  Graham  declared. 

"But  you've  not  gone  far  enough  in  sifting  the 
evidence  if  you  sure  don't  want  to  lynch  an  innocent 
man.  The  only  evidence  you  have  is  that  you  caught 
Harry  on  Johnson's  cayuse.  How  do  you  know  it's 
Johnson's  cayuse?" 

"Caribou  says  it  is,"  Graham  answered. 

"And  Harry  says  it  was  an  Indian's  cayuse,"  Car- 
ney affirmed. 

"He  most  natural  just  ordinar'ly  lies  about  it," 
Kootenay  ventured  viciously. 

"Where's  the  cayuse?"  Carney  asked. 

"Out  in  the  stable,"  two  or  three  voices  answered. 

"I  want  to  see  him.  Mind,  boys,  I'm  working  for 
you  as  much  as  for  that  poor  devil  you  want  to  string 
up,  because  if  you  get  the  wrong  man  I'm  going  to 


THE  GOLD  WOLF  169 

denounce  you,  that's  as  sure  as  God  made  little 
apples." 

His  quiet  earnestness  was  compelling.  All  the 
fierce  heat  of  passion  had  gone  from  the  men;  there 
still  remained  the  grim  determination  that,  con- 
vinced they  were  right,  nothing  but  the  death  of 
some  of  them  would  check.  But  somehow  they  felt 
that  the  logic  of  conviction  would  swing  even  Carney 
to  their  side. 

So,  without  even  a  word  from  a  leader,  they  all 
thronged  out  to  the  stable  yard;  the  cayuse  was 
brought  forth,  and,  at  Bulldog's  request,  led  up  and 
down  the  yard,  his  hoofs  leaving  an  imprint  in  the 
bare  clay  at  every  step.  It  was  the  footprints  alone 
that  interested  Carney.  He  studied  them  intently, 
a  horrible  dread  in  his  heart  as  he  searched  for  that 
goblined  hoof  that  inturned.  But  the  two  forefeet 
left  saucer-like  imprints,  that,  though  they  were  both 
slightly  intoed,  as  is  the  way  of  a  cayuse,  neither 
was  like  the  curious  goblined  track  that  had  so 
fastened  on  his  fancy  out  in  the  Valley  of  the 
Grizzley's  Bridge. 

And  also  there  was  the  broken  toe  wall  of  the 
hind  foot  that  he  had  seen  on  the  newer  trail. 

He  turned  to  Caribou  Dave,  asking,  "What  makes 
you  think  this  is  Johnson's  pack  horse?" 

"There  ain't  no  thinkin'  'bout  it,"  Caribou  an- 
swered with  asperity.  "When  I  see  my  boots  I  don't 
think  they're  mine,  I  just  most  natur'ly  figger  they 
are  and  pull  'em  on.  I'd  know  that  dun-colored  rat 
if  I  see  him  in  a  wild  herd." 


170  BULLDOG  CARNEY 

"And  yet,"  Carney  objected  in  an  even  tone,  "this 
isn't  the  cayuse  that  Johnson  toted  out  his  duffel 
from  the  Eagle  Hills  on." 

A  cackle  issued  from  Kootenay  Jim's  long, 
scraggy  neck : 

"That  settles  it,  boys;  Bulldog  passes  the  buck 
and  the  game's  over.  Caribou  is  just  an  ord'nary 
liar,  'cordin'  to  Judge  Carney." 

"Caribou  is  perfectly  honest  in  his  belief,"  Carney 
declared.  "There  isn't  more  than  half  a  dozen 
colors  for  horses,  and  there  are  a  good  many  thou- 
sand horses  in  this  territory,  so  a  great  many  of  them 
are  the  same  color.  And  the  general  structure  of 
different  cayuses  is  as  similar  as  so  many  wheel- 
barrows. That  brand  on  his  shoulder  may  be  a  C, 
or  a  new  moon,  or  a  flapjack." 

He  turned  to  Caribou:  "What  brand  had  Four- 
teen-foot's  cayuse?" 

"I  don't  know,"  the  old  chap  answered  surlily, 
"but  it  was  there  same  place  it's  restin'  now — it  ain't 
shifted  none  since  you  fingered  it." 

"That  won't  do,  boys,"  Carney  said;  "if  Caribou 
can't  swear  to  a  horse's  brand,  how  can  he  swear  to 
the  beast?" 

"And  if  Fourteen-foot'd  come  back  and  stand  up 
here  and  swear  it  was  his  hawse,  that  wouldn't  do 
either,  would  it,  Bulldog?"  And  Kootenay  cackled. 

"Johnson  wouldn't  say  so — he'd  know  better. 
His  cayuse  had  a  club  foot,  an  inturned  left  fore- 
foot. I  picked  it  up,  here  and  there,  for  miles  back 
on  the  trail,  sometimes  fair  on  top  of  Johnson's  big 


THE  GOLD  WOLF  171 

boot  track,  and  sometimes  Johnson's  were  on  top 
when  he  travelled  behind." 

The  men  stared;  and  Graham  asked:  "What  do 
you  say  to  that,  Caribou?  Did  you  ever  map  out 
Fourteen-foot's  cayuse — what  his  travellers  was 
like?" 

"I  never  looked  at  his  feet — there  wasn't  no 
reason  to;  I  was  minin'." 

"There's  another  little  test  we  can  make,"  Carney 
suggested.  "Have  you  got  any  of  Johnson's  be- 
longings— a  coat?" 

"We  got  his  coat,"  Graham  answered;  "it  was 
pretty  bad  wrecked  with  the  wolves,  and  we  kinder 
fixed  the  remains  up  decent  in  a  suit  of  store  clothes." 

At  Carney's  request  the  coat  was  brought,  a  rough 
Mackinaw,  and  from  one  of  the  men  present  he  got 
a  miner's  magnifying  glass,  saying,  as  he  examined 
the  coat: 

"This  ought,  naturally,  to  be  pretty  well  filled 
with  hairs  from  that  cayuse  of  Johnson's;  and  while 
two  horses  may  look  alike,  there's  generally  a  differ- 
ence in  the  hair." 

Carney's  surmise  proved  correct;  dozens  of  short 
hairs  were  imbedded  in  the  coat,  principally  in  the 
sleeves.  Then  hair  was  plucked  from  many  differ- 
ent parts  of  the  cayuse's  body,  and  the  two  lots  were 
viewed  through  the  glass.  They  were  different. 
The  hair  on  the  cayuse  standing  in  the  yard  was 
coarser,  redder,  longer,  for  its  Indian  owner  had  let 
it  run  like  a  wild  goat;  and  Fourteen-foot  had  given 
his  cayuse  considerable  attention.  There  were  also 


172  BULLDOG  CARNEY 

some  white  hairs  in  the  coat  warp,  and  on  this  cayuse 
there  was  not  a  single  white  hair  to  be  seen. 

When  questioned  Caribou  would  not  emphatically 
declare  that  there  had  not  been  a  star  or  a  white 
stripe  in  the  forehead  of  Johnson's  horse. 

These  things  caused  one  or  two  of  the  men  to 
waver,  for  if  it  were  not  Johnson's  cayuse,  if  Cari- 
bou were  mistaken,  there  was  no  direct  evidence  to 
connect  Harry  Holt  with  the  murder. 

Kootenay  Jim  objected  that  the  examination  of 
the  hair  was  nothing;  that  Carney,  like  a  clever 
lawyer,  was  trying  to  get  the  murderer  off  on  a  tech- 
nicality. As  to  the  club  foot  they  had  only  Carney's 
guess,  whereas  Caribou  had  never  seen  any  club  foot 
on  Johnson's  horse. 

"We  can  prove  that  part  of  it,"  Graham  said; 
"we  can  go  back  on  the  trail  and  see  what  Bulldog 
seen." 

Half  a  dozen  men  approved  this,  saying:  "We'll 
put  off  the  hangin'  and  go  back." 

But  Carney  objected. 

When  he  did  so  Kootenay  Jim  and  John  from 
Slocan  raised  a  howl  of  derision,  Kootenay  saying: 
"When  we  calls  his  bluff  he  throws  his  hand  in  the 
discard.  There  ain't  no  club  foot  anywheres;  it's 
just  a  game  to  gain  time  to  give  this  coyote,  Holt,  a 
chance  to  make  a  get-away.  We're  bein'  buffaloed 
— we're  wastin'  time.  We  gets  a  murderer  on  a 
murdered  man's  hawse,  with  the  gold  in  his  pockets, 
and  Bulldog  Carney  puts  some  hawse  hairs  under  a 
glass,  hands  out  a  pipe  dream  bout  some  ghost 


THE  GOLD  WOLF  173 

tracks  back  on  the  trail,  and  reaches  out  to  grab  the 
pot.  Hell !  you'd  think  we  was  a  damn  lot  of  tender- 
feet." 

This  harangue  had  an  effect  on  the  angry  men, 
but  seemingly  none  whatever  upon  Bulldog,  for  he 
said  quietly: 

"I  don't  want  a  troop  of  men  to  go  back  on  the 
trail  just  now,  because  I'm  going  out  myself  to  bring 
the  murderer  in.  I  can  get  him  alone,  for  if  he 
does  see  me  he  won't  think  that  I'm  after  him,  sim- 
ply that  I'm  trailing.  But  if  a  party  goes  they'll 
never  see  him.  He's  a  clever  devil,  and  will  make 
his  get-away.  All  I  want  on  this  evidence  is  that 
you  hold  Holt  till  I  get  back.  I'll  bring  the  foreleg 
of  that  cayuse  with  a  club  foot,  for  there's  no  doubt 
the  murderer  made  sure  that  the  wolves  got  him 
too." 

They  had  worked  back  into  the  hotel  by  now, 
and,  inside,  Kootenay  Jim  and  his  two  cronies  had 
each  taken  a  big  drink  of  whisky,  whispering  to- 
gether as  they  drank. 

As  Carney  and  Graham  entered,  Kootenay's 
shrill  voice  was  saying: 

"We're  bein'  flim-flammed — played  for  a  lot  of 
kids.  There  ain't  been  a  damn  thing  'cept  lookin' 
at  some  hawse  hairs  through  a  glass.  Men  has  been 
murdered  on  the  trail,  and  who  done  it — somebody. 
Caribou's  mate  was  murdered,  and  we  find  his  gold 
on  a  man  that  was  stony  broke  here,  was  bummin' 
on  the  town,  spongin'  on  Seth  Long;  he  hadn't  two 
bits.  And  'cause  his  sister  stands  well  with  Bulldog 


174  BULLDOG  CARNEY 

he  palms  this  three-card  trick  with  hawse  hairs,  and 
we  got  to  let  the  murderer  go." 

"You  lie,  Kootenay !"  The  words  had  come  from 
Jeanette.  "My  brother  wouldn't  tell  you  where  he 
got  the  gold — he'd  let  you  hang  him  first ;  but  I  will 
tell.  I  took  it  out  of  Seth's  safe  and  gave  it  to  him 
to  get  out  of  the  country,  because  I  knew  that  you 
and  those  two  other  hounds,  Slocan  and  Denver, 
would  murder  him  some  night  because  he  knocked 
you  down  for  insulting  me." 

"That's  a  lie!"  Kootenay  screamed;  "you  and 
Bulldog  're  runnin'  mates  and  you've  put  this  up." 

There  was  a  cry  of  warning  from  Slocan,  and 
Kootenay  whirled,  drawing  his  gun.  As  he  did  so 
him  arm  dropped  and  his  gun  clattered  to  the  floor, 
for  Carney's  bullet  had  splintered  its  butt,  inci- 
dentally clipping  away  a  finger.  And  the  same 
weapon  in  Carney's  hand  was  covering  Slocan  and 
Denver  as  they  stood  side  by  side,  their  backs  to 
the  bar. 

No  one  spoke;  almost  absolute  stillness  hung  in 
the  air  for  five  seconds.  Half  the  men  in  the  room 
had  drawn,  but  no  one  pulled  a  trigger — no  one 
spoke. 

It  was  Carney  who  broke  the  silence : 

"Jeanette,  bind  that  hound's  hand  up;  and  you, 
Seth,  send  for  the  doctor — I  guess  he's  too  much  of 
a  man  to  be  In  this  gang." 

A  wave  of  relief  swept  over  the  room;  men 
coughed  or  spat  as  the  tension  slipped,  dropping 
their  guns  back  into  holsters. 


THE  GOLD  WOLF 

Kootenay  Jim,  cowed  by  the  damaged  hand,  hold- 
ing it  in  his  left,  followed  Jeanette  out  of  the  room. 

As  the  girl  disappeared  Harry  Holt,  who  had 
stood  between  the  two  men,  his  wrists  bound  behind 
his  back,  said: 

"My  sister  told  a  lie  to  shield  me.  I  stole  the 
gold  myself  from  Seth's  safe.  I  wanted  to  get  out 
of  this  hell  hole  'cause  I  knew  I'd  got  to  kill  Koo- 
tenay or  he'd  get  me.  That's  why  I  didn't  tell  before 
where  the  gold  come  from." 

"Here,  Seth,"  Carney  called  as  Long  came  back 
into  the  room,  "you  missed  any  gold — what  do  you 
know  about  Holt's  story  that  he  got  the  gold  from 
your  safe?" 

"I  ain't  looked — I  don't  keep  no  close  track  of 
what's  in  that  iron  box;  I  jus'  keep  the  key,  and  a 
couple  of  bags  might  get  lifted  and  I  wouldn't  know. 
If  Jeanette  took  a  bag  or  two  to  stake  her  brother, 
I  guess  she's  got  a  right  to,  'cause  we're  pardners 
in  all  I  got." 

"I  took  the  key  when  Seth  was  sleeping,"  Harry 
declared.  "Jeanette  didn't  know  I  was  going  to 
take  it." 

"But  your  sister  claims  she  took  it,  so  how'd  she 
say  that  if  it  isn't  a  frame-up?"  Graham  asked. 

"I  told  her  just  as  I  was  pullin'  out,  so  she 
wouldn't  let  Seth  get  in  wrong  by  blamin'  her  or 
somebody  else." 

"Don't  you  see,  boys,"  Carney  interposed,  "if 
you'd  swung  off  this  man,  and  all  this  was  proved 
afterwards,  you'd  be  in  wrong?  You  didn't  find  on 


176  BULLDOG  CARNEY 

Harry  a  tenth  of  the  gold  Fourteen-foot  likely 
had." 

"That  skunk  hid  it,"  Caribou  declared;  "he  just 
kept  enough  to  get  out  with." 

Poor  old  Caribou  was  thirsting  for  revenge;  in 
his  narrowed  hate  he  would  have  been  satisfied  if 
the  party  had  pulled  a  perfect  stranger  off  a  pass- 
ing train  and  lynched  him;  it  would  have  been  a 
quid  pro  quo.  He  felt  that  he  was  being  cheated 
by  the  superior  cleverness  of  Bulldog  Carney.  He 
had  seen  miners  beaten  out  of  their  just  gold  claims 
by  professional  sharks;  the  fine  reasoning,  the  micro- 
scopic evidence  of  the  hairs,  the  intoed  hoof,  all 
these  things  were  beyond  him.  He  was  honest  in 
his  conviction  that  the  cayuse  was  Johnson's,  and 
feared  that  the  man  who  had  killed  his  friend  would 
slip  through  their  fingers. 

"It's  just  like  this,  boys,"  he  said,  "me  and  Four- 
teen-foot was  together  so  long  that  if  he  was  away 
somewhere  I'd  know  he  was  comin'  back  a  day  afore 
he  hit  camp — I'd  feel  it,  same's  I  turned  back  on 
the  trail  there  and  found  him  all  chawed  up  by  the 
wolves.  There  wasn't  no  reason  to  look  over  that 
cliff  only  ol'  Fourteen-foot  a-callin'  me.  And  now 
he's  a-tellin'  me  inside  that  that  skunk  there  mur- 
dered him  when  he  wasn't  lookin'.  And  if  you 
chaps  ain't  got  the  sand  to  push  this  to  a  finish  I'll 
get  the  man  that  killed  Fourteen-foot;  he  won't 
never  get  away.  If  you  boys  is  just  a  pack  of 
coyotes  that  howls  good  and  plenty  till  somebody 
calls  'em,  and  is  goin'  to  slink  away  with  your  tails 


THE  GOLD  WOLF  177 

between  your  legs  for  fear  you'll  be  rounded  up 
for  the  lynchin',  you  can  turn  this  murderer  loose 
right  now — you  don't  need  to  worry  what'll  happen 
to  him.  I'll  be  too  danged  lonesome  without  Four- 
teen-foot to  figger  what's  comin'  to  me.  Turn  him 
loose — take  the  hobbles  off  him.  You  fellers  go 
home  and  pull  your  blankets  over  your  heads  so's 
you  won't  see  no  ghosts." 

Carney's  sharp  gray  eyes  watched  the  old  fa- 
natic's every  move;  he  let  him  talk  till  he  had  ex- 
hausted himself  with  his  passionate  words ;  then  he 
said: 

"Caribou,  you're  some  man.  You'd  go  through 
a  whole  tribe  of  Indians  for  a  chum.  You  believe 
you're  right,  and  that's  just  what  I'm  trying  to  do 
in  this,  find  out  who  is  right — we  don't  want  to 
wrong  anybody.  You  can  come  back  on  the  trail 
with  me,  and  I'll  show  you  the  club-footed  tracks; 
I'll  let  you  help  me  get  the  right  man." 

The  old  chap  turned  his  humpy  shoulders,  and 
looked  at  Carney  out  of  bleary,  weasel  eyes  set  be- 
neath shaggy  brows;  then  he  shrilled: 

"I'll  see  you  in  hell  fust;  I've  heerd  o'  you,  Bull- 
dog; I've  heerd  you  had  a  wolverine  skinned  seven 
ways  of  the  jack  for  tricks,  and  by  the  rings  on  a 
Big  Horn  I  believe  it.  You  know  that  while  I'm 
here  that  jack  rabbit  ain't  goin'  to  get  away — and 
he  ain't;  you  can  bet  your  soul  on  that,  Bulldog. 
We'd  go  out  on  the  trail  and  we'd  find  that  Wie- 
sah-ke-chack,  the  Indian's  devil,  had  stole  'em  pipe- 
dream,  club-footed  tracks,  and  when  we  come  back 


178  BULLDOG  CARNEY 

the  man  that  killed  my  chum,  old  Fourteen-foot, 
would  be  down  somewhere  where  a  smart-Aleck 
lawyer  'd  get  him  off." 

It  took  an  hour  of  cool  reasoning  on  the  part 
of  Carney  to  extract  from  that  roomful  of  men  a 
promise  that  they  would  give  Holt  three  days  of 
respite,  Carney  giving  his  word  that  he  would  not 
send  out  any  information  to  the  police  but  would 
devote  the  time  to  bringing  in  the  murderer. 

Kootenay  Jim  had  had  his  wound  dressed.  He 
was  in  an  ugly  mood  over  the  shooting,  but  the 
saner  members  of  the  lynching  party  felt  that  he 
had  brought  the  quarrel  on  himself;  that  he  had 
turned  so  viciously  on  Jeanette,  whom  they  all  liked, 
caused  the  men  to  feel  that  he  had  got  pretty  much 
his  just  deserts.  He  had  drawn  his  gun  first,  and 
when  a  man  does  that  he's  got  to  take  the  conse- 
quences. He  was  a  gambler,  and  a  gambler  gen- 
erally had  to  abide  by  the  gambling  chance  in  gun 
play  as  well  as  by  the  fall  of  a  card. 

But  Carney  had  work  to  do,  and  he  was  just 
brave  enough  to  not  be  foolhardy.  He  knew  that 
the  three  toughs  would  waylay  him  in  the  dark  with- 
out compunction.  They  were  now  thirsting  not  only 
for  young  Holt's  life,  but  his.  So,  saying  openly 
that  he  would  start  in  the  morning,  when  it  was  dark 
he  slipped  through  the  back  entrance  of  the  hotel  to 
the  stable,  and  led  his  buckskin  out  through  a  corral 
and  by  a  back  way  to  the  tunnel  entrance  of  the 
abandoned  Little  Widow  mine.  Here  he  left  the 
horse  and  returned  to  the  hotel,  set  up  the  drinks, 


THE  GOLD  WOLF  179 

and  loafed  about  for  a  time,  generally  giving  the 
three  desperadoes  the  impression  that  he  was  camped 
for  the  night  in  the  Gold  Nugget,  though  Graham, 
in  whom  he  had  confided,  knew  different. 

Presently  he  slipped  away,  and  Jeanette,  who  had 
got  the  key  from  Seth,  unlocked  the  door  that  led 
down  to  the  long  communicating  drift,  at  the  other 
end  of  which  was  the  opening  to  the  Little  Widow 
mine. 

Jeanette  closed  the  door  and  followed  Carney 
down  the  stairway.  At  the  foot  of  the  stairs  he 
turned,  saying:  "You  shouldn't  do  this." 

"Why,  Bulldog?" 

"Well,  you  saw  why  this  afternoon.  Kootenay 
Jim  has  got  an  arm  in  a  sling  because  he  can't  under- 
stand. Men  as  a  rule  don't  understand  much  about 
women,  so  a  woman  has  always  got  to  wear  armor." 

"But  we  understand,  Bulldog;  and  Seth  does." 

"Yes,  girl,  we  understand;  but  Seth  can  only  un- 
derstand the  evident.  You  clamber  up  the  stairs 
quick." 

"My  God!  Bulldog,  see  what  you're  doing  for 
me  now.  You  never  would  stand  for  Harry  your- 
self." 

"If  he'd  been  my  brother  I  should,  just  as  you 
have,  girl." 

"That's  it,  Bulldog,  you're  doing  all  this,  stand- 
ing there  holding  up  a  mob  of  angry  men,  because 
he's  my  brother." 

"You  called  the  turn,  Jeanette." 


180  BULLDOG  CARNEY 

"And  all  I  can  do,  all  I  can  say  is,  thank  you.  Is 
that  all?" 

"That's  all,  girl.    It's  more  than  enough." 

He  put  a  strong  hand  on  her  arm,  almost  shook 
her,  saying  with  an  earnestness  that  the  playful  tone 
hardly  masked: 

"When  you've  got  a  true  friend  let  him  do  all  the 
friending — then  you'll  hold  him ;  the  minute  you  try 
to  rearrange  his  life  you  start  backing  the  losing 
card.  Now,  good-bye,  girl;  I've  got  work  to  do. 
I'll  bring  in  that  wolf  of  the  trail;  I've  got  him 
marked  down  in  a  cave — I'll  get  him.  You  tell  that 
pin-headed  brother  of  yours  to  stand  pat.  And  if 
Kootenay  starts  any  deviltry  go  straight  to  Graham. 
Good-bye." 

Cool  fingers  touched  the  girl  on  the  forehead; 
then  she  stood  alone  watching  the  figure  slipping 
down  the  gloomed  passage  of  the  drift,  lighted 
candle  in  hand. 

Carney  led  his  buckskin  from  the  mine  tunnel, 
climbed  the  hillside  to  a  back  trail,  and  mounting, 
rode  silently  at  a  walk  till  the  yellow  blobs  of  light 
that  was  Bucking  Horse  lay  behind  him.  Then  at 
a  little  hunch  of  his  heels  the  horse  broke  into  a 
shuffling  trot. 

It  was  near  midnight  when  he  camped;  both  he 
and  the  buckskin  had  eaten  robustly  back  at  the  Gold 
Nugget  Hotel,  and  Carney,  making  the  horse  lie 
down  by  tapping  him  gently  on  the  shins  with  his 
quirt,  rolled  himself  in  his  blanket  and  slept  close 


THE  GOLD  WOLF  181 

beside  the  buckskin — they  were  like  two  men  in  a 
huge  bed. 

All  next  day  he  rode,  stopping  twice  to  let  the 
buckskin  feed,  and  eating  a  dry  meal  himself,  build- 
ing no  fire.  He  had  a  conviction  that  the  murderer 
of  the  gold  hunters  made  the  Valley  of  the  Grizzley's 
Bridge  his  stalking  ground.  And  if  the  devil  who 
stalked  these  returning  miners  was  still  there  he  felt 
certain  that  he  would  get  him. 

There  had  been  nothing  to  rouse  the  murderer's 
suspicion  that  these  men  were  known  to  have  been 
murdered. 

A  sort  of  fatality  hangs  over  a  man  who  once 
starts  in  on  a  crime  of  that  sort;  he  becomes  like  a 
man  who  handles  dynamite — careless,  possessed  of 
a  sense  of  security,  of  fatalism.  Carney  had  found 
all  desperadoes  that  way,  each  murder  had  made 
them  more  sure  of  themselves,  it  generally  had  been 
so  easy. 

Caribou  Dave  had  probably  passed  without  being 
seen  by  the  murderer;  indeed  he  had  passed  that 
point  early  in  the  morning,  probably  while  the  ghoul 
of  the  trail  slept;  the  murderer  would  reason  that 
if  there  was  any  suspicion  in  Bucking  Horse  that 
miners  had  been  made  away  with,  a  posse  would 
have  come  riding  over  the  back  trail,  and  the  mur- 
derer would  have  ample  knowledge  of  their  ap- 
proach. 

To  a  depraved  mind,  such  as  his,  there  was  a 
terrible  fascination  in  this  killing  of  men,  and  cap- 
turing their  gold ;  he  would  keep  at  it  like  a  gambler 


182  BULLDOG  CARNEY 

who  has  struck  a  big  winning  streak;  he  would  pile 
up  gold,  probably  in  the  cave  Carney  had  seen  the 
mouth  of,  even  if  it  were  more  than  he  could  take 
away.  It  was  the  curse  of  the  lust  of  gold,  and, 
once  started,  the  devilish  murder  lust. 

Carney  had  an  advantage.  He  was  looking  for  a 
man  in  a  certain  locality,  and  the  man,  not  knowing 
of  his  approach,  not  dreading  it,  would  be  watching 
the  trail  in  the  other  direction  for  victims.  Even  if 
'  he  had  met  him  full  on  the  trail  Carney  would  have 
passed  the  time  of  day  and  ridden  on,  as  if  going  up 
into  the  Eagle  Hills.  And  no  doubt  the  murderer 
would  let  him  pass  without  action.  It  was  only 
returning  miners  he  was  interested  in.  Yes,  Carney 
had  an  advantage,  and  if  the  man  were  still  there 
he  would  get  him. 

His  plan  was  to  ride  the  buckskin  to  within  a 
short  distance  of  where  the  murders  had  been  com- 
mitted, which  was  evidently  in  the  neighborhood  of 
the  cliff  at  the  bottom  of  which  Fourteen-foot  John- 
son had  been  found,  and  go  forward  on  foot  until 
he  had  thoroughly  reconnoitered  the  ground.  He 
felt  that  he  would  catch  sight  of  the  murderer  some- 
where between  that  point  and  the  cave,  for  he  was 
convinced  that  the  cave  was  the  home  of  this  trail 
devil. 

The  uncanny  event  of  the  wolves  was  not  so  sim- 
ple. The  curious  tone  of  the  wolf's  howl  had  sug- 
gested a  wild  dog — that  is,  a  creature  that  was  half 
dog,  half  wolf;  either  whelped  that  way  in  the  for- 
ests, or  a  train  dog  that  had  escaped.  Even  a  fanci- 


THE  GOLD  WOLF  183 

ful  weird  thought  entered  Carney's  mind  that  the 
murderer  might  be  on  terms  of  dominion  over  this 
half-wild  pair;  they  might  know  him  well  enough  to 
leave  him  alone,  and  yet  devour  his  victims.  This 
(was  conjecture,  rather  far-fetched,  but  still  not  im- 
possible. An  Indian's  train  dogs  would  obey  their 
master,  but  pull  down  a  white  man  quick  enough  if 
he  were  helpless. 

However,  the  man  was  the  thing. 

The  sun  was  dipping  behind  the  jagged  fringe  of 
mountain  tops  to  the  west  when  Carney  slipped  down 
into  the  Valley  of  the  Grizzley's  Bridge,  and,  ford- 
ing the  stream,  rode  on  to  within  a  hundred  and 
fifty  yards  of  the  spot  where  his  buckskin  had  shied 
from  the  trail  two  days  before. 

Dismounting,  he  took  off  his  coat  and  draping  it 
over  the  horse's  neck  said :  "Now  you're  anchored, 
Patsy — stand  steady." 

Then  he  unbuckled  the  snaffle  bit  and  rein  from 
the  bridle  and  wound  the  rein  about  his  waist.  Car- 
ney knew  that  the  horse,  not  hampered  by  a  dangling 
rein  to  catch  in  his  legs  or  be  seized  by  a  man,  would 
protect  himself.  No  man  but  Carney  could  saddle 
the  buckskin  or  mount  him  unless  he  was  roped  or 
thrown;  and  his  hind  feet  were  as  deft  as  the  fists 
of  a  boxer. 

Then  he  moved  steadily  along  the  trail,  finding 
here  and  there  the  imprint  of  moccasined  feet  that 
had  passed  over  the  trail  since  he  had.  There  were 
the  fre,sh  pugs  of  two  wolves,  the  dog-wolf's  paws 
enormous. 


184  BULLDOG  CARNEY 

Carney's  idea  was  to  examine  closely  the  trail 
that  ran  by  the  cliff  to  where  his  horse  had  shied 
from  the  path  in  the  hope  of  finding  perhaps  the 
evidences  of  struggle,  patches  of  blood  soaked  into 
the  brown  earth,  and  then  pass  on  to  where  he  could 
command  a  view  of  the  cave  mouth.  If  the  mur- 
derer had  his  habitat  there  he  would  be  almost  cer- 
tain to  show  himself  at  that  hour,  either  returning 
from  up  the  trail  where  he  might  have  been  on  the 
lookout  for  approaching  victims,  or  to  issue  from 
the  cave  for  water  or  firewood  for  his  evening  meal. 
Just  what  he  should  do  Carney  had  not  quite  deter- 
mined. First  he  would  stalk  the  man  in  hopes  of 
finding  out  something  that  was  conclusive. 

If  the  murderer  were  hiding  in  the  cave  the  gold 
would  almost  certainly  be  there. 

That  was  the  order  of  events,  so  to  speak,  when 
Carney,  hand  on  gun,  and  eyes  fixed  ahead  on  the 
trail,  came  to  the  spot  where  the  wolf  had  stood  at 
bay.  The  trail  took  a  twist,  a  projecting  rock  bel- 
lied it  into  a  little  turn,  and  a  fallen  birch  lay  across 
it,  half  smothered  in  a  lake  of  leaves  and  brush. 

As  Carney  stepped  over  the  birch  there  was  a 
crashing  clamp  of  iron,  and  the  powerful  jaws  of  a 
bear  trap  closed  on  his  leg  with  such  numbing  force 
that  he  almost  went  out.  His  brain  swirled;  there 
were  roaring  noises  in  his  head,  an  excruciating 
grind  on  his  leg. 

His  senses  steadying,  his  first  cogent  thought  was 
that  the  bone  was  smashed;  but  a  limb  of  the  birch, 
caught  in  the  jaws,  squelched  to  splinters,  had  saved 


THE  GOLD  WOLF  185 

the  bone;  this  and  his  breeches  and  heavy  socks  in 
the  legs  of  his  strong  riding  boots. 

As  if  the  snapping  steel  had  carried  down  the 
valley,  the  evening  stillness  was  rent  by  the  yelping 
howl  of  a  wolf  beyond  where  the  cave  hung  on  the 
hillside.  There  was  something  demoniac  in  this, 
suggesting  to  the  half-dazed  man  that  the  wolf  stood 
as  sentry. 

The  utter  helplessness  of  his  position  came  to  him 
with  full  force;  he  could  no  more  open  the  jaws  of 
that  double-springed  trap  than  he  could  crash  the 
door  of  a  safe.  And  a  glance  showed  him  that  the 
trap  was  fastened  by  a  chain  at  either  end  to  stout- 
growing  trees.  It  was  a  man-trap;  if  it  had  been 
for  a  bear  it  would  be  fastened  to  a  piece  of  loose 
log. 

The  fiendish  deviltry  of  the  man  who  had  set  it 
was  evident.  The  whole  vile  scheme  flashed  upon 
Carney;  it  was  set  where  the  trail  narrowed  before 
it  wound  down  to  the  gorge,  and  the  man  caught  in 
it  could  be  killed  by  a  club,  or  left  to  be  devoured 
by  the  wolves.  A  pistol  might  protect  him  for  a 
little  short  time  against  the  wolves,  but  that  even 
could  be  easily  wheedled  out  of  a  man  caught  by  the 
murderer  coming  with  a  pretense  of  helping  him. 

Suddenly  a  voice  fell  on  Carney's  ear: 

"Throw  your  gun  out  on  the  trail  in  front  of  you ! 
I've  got  you  covered,  Bulldog,  and  you  haven't  got 
a  chance  on  earth." 

Now  Carney  could  make  out  a  pistol,  a  man's 


186  BULLDOG  CARNEY 

head,  and  a  crooked  arm  projecting  from  beside  a 
tree  twenty  yards  along  the  trail. 

"Throw  out  the  gun,  and  I'll  parley  with  you  I" 
the  voice  added. 

Carney  recognized  the  voice  as  that  of  Jack  the 
Wolf,  and  he  knew  that  the  offered  parley  was  only 
a  blind,  a  trick  to  get  his  gun  away  so  that  he  would 
be  a  quick  victim  for  the  wolves;  that  would  save 
a  shooting.  Sometimes  an  imbedded  bullet  told  the 
absolute  tale  of  murder. 

"There's  nothing  doing  in  that  line,  Jack  the 
Wolf,"  Carney  answered;  "you  can  shoot  and  be 
damned  to  you  I  I'd  rather  die  that  way  than  be 
torn  to  pieces  by  the  wolves." 

Jack  the  Wolf  seemed  to  debate  this  matter  be- 
hind the  tree;  then  he  said:  "It's  your  own  fault  if 
you  get  into  my  bear  trap,  Bulldog;  I  ain't  invited 
you  in.  I've  been  watchin'  you  for  the  last  hour, 
and  I've  been  a-wonderin'  just  what  your  little  game 
was.  Me  and  you  ain't  good  'nough  friends  for  me 
to  step  up  there  to  help  you  out,  and  you  got  a  gun 
on  you.  You  throw  it  out  and  I'll  parley.  If  you'll 
agree  to  certain  things,  I'll  spring  that  trap,  and  you 
can  ride  away,  'cause  I  guess  you'll  keep  your  word. 
I  don't  want  to  kill  nobody,  I  don't." 

The  argument  was  specious.  If  Carney  had  not 
known  Jack  the  Wolf  as  absolutely  bloodthirsty,  he 
might  have  taken  a  chance  and  thrown  the  gun. 

"You  know  perfectly  well,  Jack  the  Wolf,  that  if 
you  came  to  help  me  out,  and  I  shot  you,  I'd  be  com- 
mitting suicide,  so  you're  lying." 


THE  GOLD  WOLF  187 

"You  mean  you  won't  give  up  the  gun?" 

"No." 

"Well,  keep  it,  damn  you !  Them  wolves  knows 
a  thing  or  two.  One  of  'em  knows  pretty  near  as 
much  about  guns  as  you  do.  They'll  just  sit  off  there 
in  the  dark  and  laugh  at  you  till  you  drop;  then 
you'll  never  wake  up.  You  think  it  over,  Bulldog, 
I'm " 

The  speaker's  voice  was  drowned  by  the  howl  of 
the  wolf  a  short  distance  down  the  valley. 

"D'you  hear  him,  Bulldog?"  Jack  queried  when 
the  howls  had  died  down.  "They  get  your  number 
on  the  wind  and  they're  sayin'  you're  their  meat. 
You  think  over  my  proposition  while  I  go  down  and 
gather  in  your  buckskin;  he  looks  good  to  me  for  a 
get-away.  You  let  me  know  when  I  come  back  what 
you'll  do,  'cause  'em  wolves  is  in  a  hurry — they're 
hungry;  and  I  guess  your  leg  ain't  none  too  com- 
f'table." 

Then  there  was  silence,  and  Carney  knew  that 
Jack  the  Wolf  was  circling  through  the  bush  to 
where  his  horse  stood,  keeping  out  of  range  as  he 
travelled. 

Carney  knew  that  the  buckskin  would  put  up  a 
fight;  his  instinct  would  tell  him  that  Jack  the  Wolf 
was  evil.  The  howling  wolf  would  also  have  raised 
the  horse's  mettle;  but  he  himself  was  in  the  awk- 
ward position  of  being  a  loser,  whether  man  or 
horse  won. 

From  where  he  was  trapped  the  buckskin  was  in 
view.  Carney  saw  his  head  go  up,  the  lop  ears 


188  BULLDOG  CARNEY 

throw  forward  in  rigid  listening,  and  he  could  see, 
beyond,  off  to  the  right,  the  skulking  form  of  Jack 
slipping  from  tree  to  tree  so  as  to  keep  the  buckskin 
between  him  and  Carney. 

Now  the  horse  turned  his  arched  neck  and  snorted. 
Carney  whipped  out  his  gun,  a  double  purpose  in  his 
mind.  If  Jack  the  Wolf  offered  a  fair  mark  he 
would  try  a  shot,  though  at  a  hundred  and  fifty  yards 
it  would  be  a  chance;  and  he  must  harbor  his  cart- 
ridges for  the  wolves;  the  second  purpose  was  that 
the  shot  would  rouse  the  buckskin  with  a  knowledge 
that  there  was  a  battle  on. 

Jack  the  Wolf  came  to  the  trail  beyond  the  horse 
and  was  now  slowly  approaching,  speaking  in  coax- 
ing terms.  The  horse,  warily  alert,  was  shaking  his 
head;  then  he  pawed  at  the  earth  like  an  angry  bull. 

Ten  yards  from  the  horse  Jack  stood  still,  his  eye 
noticing  that  the  bridle  rein  and  bit  were  missing. 
Carney  saw  him  uncoil  from  his  waist  an  ordinary 
packing  rope ;  it  was  not  a  lariat,  being  short.  With 
this  in  a  hand  held  behind  his  back,  Jack,  with  short 
steps,  moved  slowly  toward  the  buckskin,  trying  to 
soothe  the  wary  animal  with  soft  speech. 

Ten  feet  from  the  horse  he  stood  again,  and  Car- 
ney knew  what  that  meant — a  little  quick  dash  in  to 
twist  the  rope  about  the  horse's  head,  or  seize  him 
by  the  nostrils.  Also  the  buckskin  knew.  He  turned 
his  rump  to  the  man,  threw  back  his  ears,  and  lashed 
out  with  his  hind  feet  as  a  warning  to  the  horse 
thief.  The  coat  had  slipped  from  his  neck  to  the 
ground. 


THE  GOLD  WOLF  189 

Jack  the  Wolf  tried  circling  tactics,  trying  to  gen- 
tle the  horse  into  a  sense  of  security  with  soothing 
words.  Once,  thinking  he  had  a  chance,  he  sprang 
for  the  horse's  head,  only  to  escape  those  lightning 
heels  by  the  narrowest  margin;  at  that  instant  Car- 
ney fired,  but  his  bullet  missed,  and  Jack,  startled, 
stood  back,  planning  sulkily. 

Carney  saw  him  thread  out  his  rope  with  the 
noose  end  in  his  right  hand,  and  circle  again.  Then 
the  hand  with  a  half-circle  sent  the  loop  swishing 
through  the  air,  and  at  the  first  cast  it  went  over  the 
buckskin's  head. 

Carney  had  been  waiting  for  this.  He  whistled 
shrilly  the  signal  that  always  brought  the  buckskin 
to  his  side. 

Jack  had  started  to  work  his  way  up  the  rope, 
hand  over  hand,  but  at  the  well-known  signal  the 
horse  whirled,  the  rope  slipped  through  Jack's 
sweaty  hands,  a  loop  of  it  caught  his  leg,  and  he  was 
thrown.  The  buckskin,  strung  to  a  high  nervous 
tension,  answered  his  master's  signal  at  a  gallop, 
and  the  rope,  fastened  to  Jack's  waist,  dragged  him 
as  though  he  hung  from  a  runaway  horse  with  a 
foot  in  the  stirrup.  His  body  struck  rocks,  trees, 
roots;  it  jiggered  about  on  the  rough  earth  like  a 
cork,  for  the  noose  had  slipped  back  to  the  buck- 
skin's shoulders. 

Just  as  the  horse  reached  Carney,  Jack  the  Wolf's 
two  legs  straddled  a  slim  tree  and  the  body  wedged 
there.  Carney  snapped  his  fingers,  but  as  the  horse 


190  BULLDOG  CARNEY 

stepped  forward  the  rope  tightened,  the  body  wa» 
fast. 

"Damned  if  I  want  to  tear  the  cuss  to  pieces, 
Patsy,"  he  said,  drawing  forth  his  pocket  knife.  He 
just  managed  by  reaching  out  with  his  long  arm,  to 
cut  the  rope,  and  the  horse  thrust  his  velvet  muzzle 
against  his  master's  cheek,  as  if  he  would  say,  "Now, 
old  pal,  we're  all  right — don't  worry." 

Bulldog  understood  the  reassurance  and,  parting 
the  broad  wise  forehead,  answered :  "We  can  play 
the  wolves  together,  Pat — I'm  glad  you're  here. 
It's  a  hundred  to  one  on  us  yet."  Then  a  half- 
smothered  oath  startled  the  horse,  for,  at  a  twist, 
a  shoot  of  agony  raced  along  the  vibrant  nerves  to 
Carney's  brain. 

In  the  subsidence  of  strife  Carney  was  cognizant 
of  the  night  shadows  that  had  crept  along  the  val- 
ley; it  would  soon  be  dark.  Perhaps  he  could  build 
a  little  fire ;  it  would  keep  the  wolves  at  bay,  for  in 
the  darkness  they  would  come;  it  would  give  him 
a  circle  of  light,  and  a  target  when  the  light  fell  on. 
their  snarling  faces. 

Bending  gingerly  down  he  found  in  the  big  bed 
of  leaves  a  network  of  dead  branches  that  Jack  the 
Wolf  had  cunningly  placed  there  to  hold  the  leaves. 
There  was  within  reach  on  the  dead  birch  some  of 
its  silver  parchment-like  bark.  With  his  cowboy 
hat  he  brushed  the  leaves  away  from  about  his  limbs, 
then  taking  off  his  belt  he  lowered  himself  gingerly 
to  his  free  knee  and  built  a  little  mound  of  sticks  and 
bark  against  the  birch  log.  Then  he  put  his  hand 


THE  GOLD  WOLF  19> 

in  a  pocket  for  matches — every  pocket;  he  had  not 
one  match;  they  were  in  his  coat  lying  down  some- 
where on  the  trail.  He  looked  longingly  at  the 
body  lying  wedged  against  the  tree ;  Jack  would  have 
matches,  for  no  man  travelled  the  wilds  without  the 
means  to  a  fire.  But  matches  in  New  York  were 
about  as  accessible  as  any  that  might  be  in  the  dead 
man's  pockets.  i 

Philosophic  thought  with  one  leg  in  a  bear  trap 
is  practically  impossible,  and  Carney's  arraignment 
of  tantalizing  Fate  was  inelegant.  As  if  Fate  re- 
sented this,  Fate,  or  something,  cast  into  the  trapped 
man's  mind  a  magical  inspiration — a  vital  grievance. 
His  mind,  acute  because  of  his  dilemna  and  pain, 
must  have  wandered  far  ahead  of  his  cognizance, 
for  a  sane  plan  of  escape  lay  evident.  If  he  had  a 
fire  he  could  heat  the  steel  springs  of  that  trap.  The 
leaves  of  the  spring  were  thin,  depending  upon  that 
elusive  quality,  the  steel's  temper,  for  strength.  If 
he  could  heat  the  steel,  even  to  a  dull  red,  the  temper 
would  leave  it  as  a  spirit  forsakes  a  body,  and  the 
spring  would  bend  like  cardboard. 

"And  I  haven't  got  a  damn  match,"  Carney 
wailed.  Then  he  looked  at  the  body.  "But  you've 
got  them " 

He  grasped  the  buckskin's  headpiece  and  drew 
him  forward  a  pace;  then  he  imslung  his  picket  line 
and  made  a  throw  for  Jack  the  Wolf's  head.  If  he 
could  yank  the  body  around,  the  wedged  legs  would 
clear. 

Throwing  a  lariat  at  a  man  lying  groggily  flat, 


192  BULLDOG  CARNEY 

with  one  of  the  thrower's  legs  in  a  bear  trap,  was  a 
new  one  on  Carney — it  was  some  test. 

Once  he  muttered  grimly,  from  between  set  teeth : 
"If  my  leg  holds  out  I'll  get  him  yet,  Patsy." 

Then  he  threw  the  lariat  again,  only  to  drag  the 
noose  hopelessly  off  the  head  that  seemed  glued  to 
the  ground,  the  dim  light  blurring  form  and  earth 
into  a  shadow  from  which  thrust,  indistinctly,  the 
pale  face  that  carried  a  crimson  mark  from  forehead 
to  chin. 

He  had  made  a  dozen  casts,  all  futile,  the  noose 
sometimes  catching  slightly  at  the  shaggy  head,  even 
causing  it  to  roll  weirdly,  as  if  the  man  were  not 
dead  but  dodging  the  rope.  As  Carney  slid  the 
noose  from  his  hand  to  float  gracefully  out  toward 
the  body  his  eye  caught  the  dim  form  of  the  dog- 
wolf,  just  beyond,  his  slobbering  jaws  parted,  giving 
him  the  grinning  aspect  of  a  laughing  hyena.  Car- 
ney snatched  the  rope  and  dropped  his  hand  to  his 
gun,  but  the  wolf  was  quicker  than  the  man — he  was 
gone.  A  curious  thing  had  happened,  though,  for 
that  erratic  twist  of  the  rope  had  spiraled  the  noose 
beneath  Jack  the  Wolf's  chin,  and  gently,  vibratingly 
tightening  the  slip,  Carney  found  it  hold.  Then, 
hand  over  hand,  he  hauled  the  body  to  the  birch  log, 
and,  without  ceremony,  searched  it  for  matches. 
He  found  them,  wrapped  in  an  oilskin  in  a  pocket 
of  Jack's  shirt.  He  noticed,  casually,  that  Jack's 
gun  had  been  torn  from  its  belt  during  the  owner's 
rough  voyage. 

The  finding  of  the  matches  was  like  an  anesthetic 


THE  GOLD  WOLF  193 

to  the  agony  of  the  clamp  on  his  leg.  He  chuckled, 
saying,  "Patsy,  it's  a  million  to  one  on  us;  they  can't 
beat  us,  old  pard." 

He  transferred  his  faggots  and  birch  bark  to  the 
loops  of  the  springs,  one  pile  at  either  end  of  the 
trap,  and  touched  a  match  to  them. 

The  acrid  smoke  almost  stifled  him;  sparks  burnt 
his  hands,  and  his  wrists,  and  his  face;  the  jaws  of 
the  trap  commenced  to  catch  the  heat  as  it  travelled 
along  the  conducting  steel,  and  he  was  threatened 
with  the  fact  that  he  might  burn  his  leg  off.  With 
his  knife  he  dug  up  the  black  moist  earth  beneath 
the  leaves,  and  dribbled  it  on  to  the  heating  jaws. 

Carney  was  so  intent  on  his  manifold  duties  that 
he  had  practically  forgotten  Jack  the  Wolf;  but  as 
he  turned  his  face  from  an  inspection  of  a  spring 
that  was  reddening,  he  saw  a  pair  of  black  vicious 
eyes  watching  him,  and  a  hand  reaching  for  his  gun 
belt  that  lay  across  the  birch  log. 

The  hands  of  both  men  grasped  the  belt  at  the 
same  moment,  and  a  terrible  struggle  ensued.  Car- 
ney was  handicapped  by  the  trap,  which  seemed  to 
bite  into  his  leg  as  if  it  were  one  of  the  wolves  fight- 
ing Jack's  battle ;  and  Jack  the  Wolf  showed,  by  his 
vain  efforts  to  rise,  that  his  legs  had  been  made  al- 
most useless  in  that  drag  by  the  horse. 

Carney  had  in  one  hand  a  stout  stick  with  which 
he  had  been  adjusting  his  fire,  and  he  brought  this 
down  on  the  other's  wrist,  almost  shattering  the 
bone.  With  a  cry  of  pain  Jack  the  Wolf  released 


194  BULLDOG  CARNEY 

his  grasp  of  the  belt,  and  Carney,  pulling  the  gun, 
covered  him,  saying: 

"Hoped  you  were  dead,  Jack  the  Murderer! 
Now  turn  face  down  on  this  log,  with  your  hands 
behind  your  back,  till  I  hobble  you." 

"I  can  spring  that  trap  with  a  lever  and  let  you 
out,"  Jack  offered. 

"Don't  need  you — I'm  going  to  see  you  hanged 
and  don't  want  to  be  under  any  obligation  to  you, 
murderer ;  turn  over  quick  or  I'll  kill  you  now — my 
leg  is  on  fire." 

Jack  the  Wolf  knew  that  a  man  with  a  bear  trap 
on  his  leg  and  a  gun  in  his  hand  was  not  a  man  to 
trifle  with,  so  he  obeyed. 

When  Jack's  wrists  were  tied  with  the  picket  line, 
Carney  took  a  loop  about  the  prisoner's  legs;  then 
he  turned  to  his  fires. 

The  struggle  had  turned  the  steel  springs  from 
the  fires;  but  in  the  twisting  one  of  them  had  been 
bent  so  that  its  ring  had  slipped  down  from  the 
jaws.  Now  Carney  heaped  both  fires  under  the 
other  spring  and  soon  it  was  so  hot  that,  when  bal- 
ancing his  weight  on  the  leg  in  the  trap,  he  placed 
his  other  foot  on  it  and  shifted  his  weight,  the  strip 
of  steel  went  down  like  paper.  He  was  free. 

At  first  Carney  could  not  bear  his  weight  on  the 
mangled  leg;  it  felt  as  if  it  had  been  asleep  for  ages; 
the  blood  rushing  through  the  released  veins  pricked 
like  a  tatooing  needle.  He  took  off  his  boot  and 
massaged  the  limb,  Jack  eyeing  this  proceeding  sar- 


THE  GOLD  WOLF  195 

donically.  The  two  wolves  hovered  beyond  the  fire- 
light,  snuffling  and  yapping. 

When  he  could  hobble  on  the  injured  limb  Carney 
put  the  bit  and  bridle  rein  back  on  the  buckskin,  and 
turning  to  Jack,  unwound  the  picket  line  from  his 
legs,  saying,  "Get  up  and  lead  the  way  to  that  cave !" 

"I  can't  walk,  Bulldog,"  Jack  protested;  "my  leg's 
half  broke." 

"Take  your  choice — get  on  your  legs,  or  I'll  tie 
you  up  and  leave  you  for  the  wolves,"  Carney 
snapped. 

Jack  the  Wolf  knew  his  Bulldog  Carney  well.  As 
he  rose  groggily  to  his  feet,  Carney  lifted  to  the 
saddle,  holding  the  loose  end  of  the  picket  line  that 
was  fastened  to  Jack's  wrists,  and  said: 

"Go  on  in  front;  if  you  try  any  tricks  I'll  put  a 
bullet  through  you — this  sore  leg's  got  me  peeved." 

At  the  cave  Carney  found,  as  he  expected,  several 
little  canvas  bags  of  gold,  and  other  odds  and  ends 
such  as  a  murderer  too  often,  and  also  foolishly,  will 
garner  from  his  victims.  But  he  also  found  some- 
thing he  had  not  expected  to  find — the  cayuse  that 
had  belonged  to  Fourteen-foot  Johnson,  for  Jack 
the  Wolf  had  preserved  the  cayuse  to  pack  out  his 
wealth. 

Next  morning,  no  chance  of  action  having  come 
to  Jack  the  Wolf  through  the  night,  for  he  had  lain 
tied  up  like  a  turkey  that  is  to  be  roasted,  he  started 
on  the  pilgrimage  to  Bucking  Horse,  astride  Four- 
teen-foot Johnson's  cayuse,  with  both  feet  tied  be- 


196  BULLDOG  CARNEY 

neath  that  sombre  animal's  belly.     Carney  landed 
him  and  the  gold  in  that  astonished  berg. 

And  in  the  fullness  of  time  something  very  serious 
happened  the  enterprising  man  of  the  bear  trap. 


SEVEN  BLUE  DOVES 

THEY  had  not  been  playing  more  than  half  an 
hour  when  Bulldog  Carney  felt  there  was  something 
wrong  with  the  game.  Perhaps  it  was  that  he  was 
overtired — that  he  should  have  taken  advantage  of 
the  first  bed  he  had  seen  in  a  month,  for  he  had  just 
come  in  off  the  trail  to  Bucking  Horse,  the  little, 
old,  worn-out,  mining  town,  perched  high  in  the 
Rockies  on  the  Canadian  side  of  the  border. 

From  the  very  first  he  had  been  possessed  of  a 
mental  unrest  not  habitual  with  him  at  poker.  His 
adventurous  spirit  had  always  found  a  risk,  a  high 
stake,  an  absolute  sedative;  it  steadied  his  nerve — 
gave  him  a  concentrated  enjoyment  of  pulled- 
together  mental  force.  But  to-night  there  was  a 
scent  of  evil  in  the  room. 

A  curious  room,  too,  in  which  to  be  playing  a 
game  of  poker  for  high  stakes,  for  it  was  the 
Mounted  Police  shack  at  Bucking  Horse.  But  Ser- 
geant Black  was  away  on  patrol,  or  over  at  Fort 
Steel,  and  at  such  times  the  key  of  the  log  barracks 
was  left  with  Seth  Long  at  his  hotel,  the  Gold  Nug- 
get. And  it  was  Seth  who  had  suggested  that  they 
play  in  the  police  shack  rather  than  in  a  room  of  the 
hotel. 

19? 


198  BULLDOG  CARNEY 

Carney  could  not  explain  to  himself  why  the  dis- 
trust, why  the  feeling  that  everything  was  not  on 
the  level ;  but  he  had  a  curious  conviction  that  some 
one  in  the  party  knew  every  time  he  drew  cards  just 
what  was  in  his  hand;  that  some  one  always  over- 
mastered him;  and  this  was  a  new  sensation  to  Bull- 
dog, for  if  there  ever  was  a  "poker  face"  he  owned 
it.  His  steel-gray  eyes  were  as  steady,  as  sub- 
merged to  his  will,  as  the  green  on  a  forest  tree. 
And  as  to  the  science  of  the  game,  with  its  substruc- 
ture of  nerve,  he  possessed  it  in  excelsis. 

He  watched  each  successive  dealer  of  the  cards 
unobtrusively;  watched  hand  after  hand  dealt,  and 
knew  that  every  card  had  been  slipped  from  the 
top;  that  the  shuffle  had  been  clean,  a  whispering 
riffle  without  catch  or  trick,  and  the  same  pack  was 
on  the  table  that  they  had  started  with.  He  had  not 
lost  anything  to  speak  of — and  here  was  the  hitch, 
the  enigma  of  it.  Once  he  felt  that  a  better  hand 
than  his  own  had  been  deliberately  laid  down  when 
he  had  raised;  another  time  he  had  been  called  when 
a  raise  would  have  cost  him  dear,  for  he  was  over- 
held;  twice  he  had  been  raised  out  of  it  before  the 
draw.  He  felt  that  this  had  been  done  simply  to 
keep  him  out  of  those  hands,  and  both  times  the 
Stranger  had  lost  heavily. 

Seth  Long  had  won;  but  to  suspicion  that  Seth 
Long  could  manipulate  a  card  was  to  imagine  a 
glacier  dancing  a  can-can.  Seth  was  all  thumbs ;  his 
mind,  so  to  speak,  was  all  thumbs. 

Cranford,  the   Mining  Engineer,   was   different 


SEVEN  BLUE  DOVES  199 

He  was  mentality  personified;  that  curious  type, 
high  velocity  delicately  balanced,  his  physical  struc- 
ture of  the  flexible  tenuous  quality  of  spring  steel. 
He  might  be  a  dangerous  man  if  roused.  Beneath 
the  large  dome  of  his  thin  Italian-pale  face  were 
dreamy  black  eyes.  He  was  hard  to  place.  He  was 
a  mining  engineer  without  a  mine  to  manage.  He 
was  somewhat  of  a  promoter — of  restless  activity. 
He  was  in  Bucking  Horse  on  some  sort  of  a  mine 
deal  about  which  Carney  knew  nothing.  If  he  had 
been  a  gambler  Carney  would  have  considered  him 
the  author  of  the  unrest  that  hung  so  evilly  over  the 
game. 

Shipley  was  a  bird  of  passage,  at  present  nesting 
in  the  Gold  Nugget  Hotel.  Carney  knew  of  him  just 
as  a  machinery  man,  a  seller  of  compressed-air  drills, 
etc.,  on  commission.  He  was  also  a  gambler  in  mine 
shares,  for  during  the  game  he  had  told  of  a  clean-up 
he  had  made  on  the  "Gray  Goose"  stock.  The  Gray 
Goose  Mine  was  an  ill-favored  bird,  for  its  stock  had 
had  a  crooked  manipulation.  Shipley's  face  was  not 
confidence-inspiring;  its  general  contour  suggested 
the  head  piece  of  a  hawk,  with  its  avaricious  curve  to 
the  beak.  His  metallic  eyes  were  querulous;  hold- 
ing little  of  the  human  look.  His  hands  had  caught 
Carney's  eye  when  he  came  into  the  shack  first  and 
drew  off  a  pair  of  gloves.  The  fingers  were  long, 
and  flexible,  and  soft-skinned.  The  gloves  were  the 
disquieting  exhibit,  for  Carney  had  known  gamblers 
who  wore  kid  coverings  on  their  hands  habitually 
to  preserve  the  sensitiveness  of  their  finger  tips.  He 


200  BULLDOG  CARNEY 

also  had  known  gamblers  who,  ostensibly,  had  a 
reputable  occupation. 

If  the  Stranger  had  been  winning  Carney  would 
not  have  been  so  ready  to  eliminate  him  as  the  villain 
of  the  play.  He  was  almost  more  difficult  to  allo- 
cate than  Cranford.  He  was  well  dressed — too  well 
dressed  for  unobservation.  His  name  was  Hadley, 
and  he  was  from  New  York.  Beyond  the  fact  that 
(,  he  had  six  thousand  dollars  in  Seth  Long's  iron  box, 
:*and  drank  somewhat  persistently,  little  was  known 
of  him.  His  conversation  was  almost  entirely  lim- 
ited to  a  boyish  smile,  and  an  invitation  to  anybody 
and  everybody  to  "have  a  small  sensation,"  said  sen- 
sation being  a  drink.  Once  his  reticence  slipped  a 
cog,  and  he  said  something  about  a  gold  mine  up  in 
the  hills  that  a  man,  Tacoma  Jack,  was  going  to  sell 
him.  That  was  what  the  six  thousand  was  for;  he 
was  going  to  look  at  it  with  Tacoma,  and  if  it  were 
as  represented,  make  the  first  payment  when  they 
returned. 

Watching  the  Stranger  riffle  the  cards  and  deal 
them  with  the  quiet  easy  grace  of  a  club-man,  the 
sensitive  tapering  fingers  slipping  the  paste  boards 
across  the  table  as  softly  as  the  falling  of  flower 
petals,  Carney  was  tempted  to  doubt,  but  lifting  his 
gray  eyes  to  the  smooth  face,  the  boyish  smile  lay- 
ing bare  an  even  set  of  white  teeth,  he  changed,  mut- 
tering inwardly,  "Too  much  class.'* 

It  was  puzzling;  there  was  something  wrong;  the 
game  was  too  erratic  for  finished  poker  players;  the 
spirit  of  uncertainty  possessed  them  all;  the  drawing 


SEVEN  BLUE  DOVES  201 

to  fill  was  unethical,  wayward.  Even  when  Carney 
had  laboriously  built  up  a  queen-full,  inwardly  some- 
thing whispered,  "What's  the  use?  If  there  are 
better  cards  out  you'll  lose;  if  not  you'll  win  little." 

Carney's  own  fingers  were  receptive,  and  he  had 
carefully  passed  them  over  the  smooth  surface  of 
the  cards  many  times ;  he  could  swear  there  was  no 
mark  of  identification,  no  pin  pricks.  The  pattern 
on  the  back  of  the  cards  could  contain  no  geometric 
key,  for  it  was  remarkably  simple :  seven  blue  doves 
were  in  flight  across  a  blue  background  that  was 
tross  hatched  and  sprayed  with  leaves. 

Then,  all  at  once,  he  discovered  something.  The 
curve  of  the  doves'  wings  were  all  alike — almost. 
In  a  dozen  hands  he  had  it.  It  was  an  artistic  va- 
gary; the  right  wing  of  the  middle  dove  was  the 
thousandth  part  of  an  inch  more  acutely  angled  on 
the  ace;  on  the  king  the  right  wing  of  the  second 
dove  to  the  left. 

It  would  have  taken  a  tuition  of  probably  three 
days  for  a  man  to  memorize  the  whole  system,  but 
it  was  there — which  was  the  main  thing.  And  the 
next  most  important  factor  was  that  somebody  at 
the  table  knew  the  system.  Who  was  it? 

Seth  had  won;  but  a  strong  run  of  luck  could 
have  accounted  for  that,  and  Seth  as  a  gambler  was 
a  joke.  The  Stranger,  if  he  were  a  super-crook, 
hiding  behind  that  juvenile  smile,  would  be  quite 
capable  of  this  interesting  chicanery — but  he  had 
lost. 

Cranford,  the  Engineer,  who  had  played  with  the 


202  BULLDOG  CARNEY 

consistent  conservativeness  of  a  man  sitting  in  bad 
luck,  was  two  hundred  loser.  The  man  of  ma- 
chinery, Shipley,  was  two  hundred  to  the  good;  he 
had  played  a  forcing  game,  and  but  for  having  had 
two  flushes  beaten  by  Seth  would  have  been  a  bigger 
winner.  These  two  flushes  had  troubled  Carney,  for 
Shipley  had  drawn  two  cards  each  hand.  Either  he 
was  in  great  luck,  or  knew  something. 

Carney  debated  this  extraordinary  thing.  His 
courage  was  so  exquisite  that  he  never  made  a  mis- 
take through  over-zealousness  in  the  fomenting  of 
trouble ;  the  easy  way  was  always  the  brave  way,  he 
believed.  In  the  West  there  was  no  better  key  to 
let  loose  locked-up  passion  than  to  accuse  men  of 
cheating  at  cards ;  it  was  the  last  ditch  at  which  even 
cowards  drew  and  shot.  He  took  a  handkerchief 
from  his  pocket,  wiped  his  eyes,  and  dropped  it  into 
his  lap.  At  the  next  hand  he  looked  at  his  cards, 
ran  them  together  on  the  very  edge  of  the  table, 
dropped  one  into  the  handkerchief,  placed  the  other 
four,  neatly  compacted,  into  the  discard,  and  said, 
"I'm  out!" 

Then  he  wiped  his  eyes  again  with  the  handker- 
chief, and  put  it  back  in  his  pocket. 

At  the  third  deal  somebody  discovered  that  the 
pack  was  shy — a  card  was  missing.  Investigation 
showed  that  it  was  the  ace  of  hearts. 

A  search  on  the  floor  failed  to  discover  the  ace. 

The  irritation  caused  by  this  incident  was  sub- 
dued. 

"I'll  slip  over  to  the  hotel  and  get  another  pack," 


SEVEN  BLUE  DOVES  203 

Seth  Long  suggested,  gathering  up  the  cards  and 
putting  them  in  his  pocket. 

From  the  time  Carney  had  discovered  the  erratic 
curve  to  the  doves'  wings  he  had  been  wanting  to 
ask,  "Who  owns  these  cards?"  but  had  realized  that 
it  would  have  led  to  other  things.  Now  the  query 
had  answered  itself — they  were  Seth's,  evidently. 

This  decided  Carney,  and  he  said,  "I'm  tired — 
I've  had  a  long  ride  to-day." 

He  stacked  up  his  chips  and  added:  "I'm  shy  a 
hundred." 

He  slid  five  twenty-dollar  gold  pieces  on  to  the 
table,  and  stood  up,  yawning. 

"I  think  I'll  quit,  too,"  Cranford  said.  "I've 
played  like  a  wooden  man.  To  tell  you  the  truth, 
I  haven't  enjoyed  the  game — don't  know  what's  the 
matter  with  me." 

"I'm  winner,"  Shipley  declared,  "so  I'll  stick  with 
the  game;  but  right  now  I'd  rather  shove  the  two 
hundred  into  a  pot  and  cut  for  it  than  turn  another 
card,  for  to  play  one  round  with  a  card  shy  is  a 
hoodoo  to  me.  I've  got  a  superstition  about  it.  It's 
come  my  way  twice,  and  each  time  there's  been 
hell." 

The  boyish  smile  that  had  been  hovering  about 
Hadley's  lips  suddenly  gave  place  to  a  hard  sneer, 
and  he  said:  "I'm  loser  and  I  don't  want  to  quit. 
The  game  is  young,  and,  gentlemen,  you  know  what 
that  means." 

Shipley's  black  brows  drew  together,  and  he 
turned  on  the  speaker : 


BULLDOG  CARNEY 

1  "I  haven't  got  your  money,  mister;  your  losin'  has 
been  to  Seth.  I  don't  like  your  yap  a  little  bit.  I'll 
cut  the  cards  cold  for  a  thousand  now,  or  I'll  make 
you  a  present  of  the  two  hundred  if  you  need  it." 

Carney's  quiet  voice  hushed  into  nothingness  a 
damn  that  had  issued  from  Hadley's  lips;  he  was 
saying:  "You  two  gentlemen  can't  quarrel  over  a 
game  of  cards  that  I've  sat  in;  I  don't  think  you 
want  to,  anyway.  We'd  better  just  put  the  game  off 
till  to-morrow  night." 

"We  can't  do  that,"  Seth  objected;  "I've  won  Mr. 
Hadley's  money,  and  if  he  wants  to  play  I've  got  to 
stay  with  him.  We'll  square  up  and  start  fresh. 
Anybody  wants  to  draw  cards  sets  in ;  them  as  don't, 
quits." 

"I've  got  to  have  my  wallet  out  of  your  box,  Seth, 
if  we're  to  settle  now;  besides  I  want  another  sensa- 
tion— this  bottle's  dry,"  Hadley  advised. 

"I'll  bring  over  the  cards,  your  wad,  and  another 
bottle,"  Long  said  as  he  rose. 

In  three  or  four  minutes  he  was  back  again,  pulled 
the  cork  from  a  bottle  of  Scotch  whisky,  and  they  all 
drank. 

Then,  after  passing  a  leather  wallet  over  to  Had- 
ley, he  totaled  up  the  accounts. 

Hadley  was  twelve  hundred  loser. 

He  took  from  the  wallet  this  amount  in  large 
bills,  passed  them  to  Seth,  and  handed  the  wallet 
back,  saying,  with  the  boy's  smile  on  his  lips,  "Here, 
banker,  put  that  back  in  your  pocket — you're  respon- 
sible. There's  forty-eight  hundred  there  now.  If 


SEVEN  BLUE  DOVES  205 

I  put  it  in  my  pocket  I'll  probably  forget  it,  and  hang 
the  coat  on  my  bedpost." 

Seth  passed  two  hundred  across  to  Shipley,  saying, 
"That  squares  you." 

Cranford  had  shoved  his  chips  in  with  an  I.  O.  U. 
for  two  hundred  dollars,  saying,  "I'll  pay  that  to- 
morrow. I  feel  as  if  I  had  been  pallbearer  at  a 
funeral.  When  a  man  is  gloomy  he  shouldn't  sit 
into  any  game  bigger  than  checkers." 

Seth  now  drew  from  a  pocket  two  packs  of  cards 
— the  blue-doved  cards  and  a  red  pack;  then  he  re- 
turned the  blue  cards  to  his  pocket. 

Carney  viewed  this  performance  curiously.  He 
had  been  wondering  intently  whether  the  new  pack 
would  be  the  same  as  the  one  with  the  blue  doves. 
The  red  cards  carried  a  different  design,  a  simple 
leafy  scroll,  and  Carney  washed  his  mind  of  the 
whole  oblique  thing,  mentally  absolving  himself 
from  further  interest. 

Seth  shuffled  the  new  cards,  face  up,  to  take  out 
the  joker;  having  found  it,  he  tore  the  card  in  two, 
threw  it  on  the  floor,  and  asked,  "Now,  who's  in?" 

"I'll  play  for  one  hour,"  Shipley  said,  with  an 
aggressive  crispness;  "then  I  quit,  win  or  lose;  if 
that  doesn't  go  I'll  put  the  two  hundred  on  the  table 
to  Mr.  Hadley's  one  hundred,  and  cut  for  the  pot." 

Curiously  this  only  raised  the  boy's  smile  on  Had- 
ley's face,  but  inflamed  Seth.  He  turned  on  Shipley 
with  a  coarse  raging: 

"You  talk  like  a  man  lookin'  for  trouble,  mister. 


206  BULLDOG  CARNEY 

Why  the  hell  don't  you  sit  into  the  game  or  take 
your  little  bag  of  marbles  and  run  away  home." 

"I'm  going,"  Carney  declared  noisily.  "My  ad- 
vice to  you  gentlemen  is  to  cut  out  the  unpleasant- 
ness, and  play  the  game." 

Somewhat  sullenly  Shipley  checked  an  angry  re- 
tort that  had  risen  to  his  lips,  and,  reaching  for  the 
rack  of  poker  chips,  started  to  build  a  little  pile  in 
front  of  him. 

Cranford  followed  Carney  out,  and  though  his 
shack  lay  in  the  other  direction,  walked  with  the 
latter  to  the  Gold  Nugget.  Cranford  was  in  a  most 
depressed  mood;  he  admitted  this. 

"There  was  something  wrong  about  that  game, 
Carney,"  he  asserted.  "I  knew  you  felt  it — that's 
why  you  quit.  I  was  to  go  up  to  Bald  Rock  on  the 
night  train  to  make  a  little  payment  in  the  morning 
to  secure  some  claims,  but  now  I  don't  know.  I'm 
sore  on  myself  for  sitting  in.  I  guess  I've  got  the 
gambling  bug  in  me  as  big  as  a  woodchuck;  I'm  easy 
when  I  hear  the  click  of  poker  chips.  I  lose  two 
hundred  there,  and  while,  generally,  it's  not  more 
than  a  piker's  bet  on  anything,  just  now  I'm  trying 
to  put  something  over  in  the  way  of  a  deal,  and  I'm 
runnin'  kind  of  close  to  the  wind,  financially.  That 
two  hundred  may — hell !  don't  think  me  a  squealer, 
Bulldog.  Good  night,  Bulldog." 

Carney  stood  for  ten  seconds  watching  Cranford's 
back  till  it  merged  into  the  blur  of  the  night.  Then 
he  entered  the  hotel,  almost  colliding  with  Jeanette 


SEVEN  BLUE  DOVES  207 

Holt,  who  put  a  hand  on  his  arm  and  drew  him  into 
the  dining-room  to  a  seat  at  a  little  table. 

"Where's  Seth?"  she  asked. 

"Over  at  the  police  shack." 

"Poker?" 

Carney  nodded. 

"Mr.  Hadley  there?" 

Again  Carney  nodded.  Then  he  asked,  "Why, 
Jeanette?" 

"I  don't  quite  know,"  she  answered  wearily. 
"Seth's  moral  fibre — if  he  has  any — is  becoming  like 
a  worn-out  spring  in  a  clock."  Then  her  dark  eyes 
searched  Carney's  placid  gray  eyes,  and  she  asked, 
"Were  you  playing?" 

"Yes." 

The  girl  drew  her  hand  across  her  eyes  as  if  she 
were  groping,  not  for  ideas,  but  for  vocal  vehicle. 
"And  you  left  before  the  game  was  over — why?" 

"Tired." 

Jeanette  put  her  hand  on  Carney's  that  was  lying 
on  the  table.  "Was  Seth  cheating?" 

"Why  do  you  ask  that,  Jeanette?" 

"I'll  tell  you.  He's  been  playing  by  himself  in 
his  room  for  two  or  three  days.  He's  got  a  pack  of 
cards  that  I  think  are  crooked." 

"What  is  this  Shipley  like,  Jeanette?  Do  you 
suppose  that  he  brought  Seth  those  cards?" 

"I  don't  know,"  the  girl  answered;  "I  don't  like 
him.  He  and  Seth  have  played  together  once  or 
twice." 

"They  have !    Look  here,  Jeanette,  you  must  keep 


208  BULLDOG  CARNEY 

what  I  am  going  to  tell  you  absolutely  to  yourself, 
for  I  may  be  entirely  wrong  in  my  guess.  There 
was  a  marked  pack  in  the  game,  and  I  think  Seth 
owned  it.  This  Shipley  acted  very  like  a  man  who 
was  running  a  bluff  of  being  angry.  He  and  Seth 
had  some  words  over  nothing.  It  seems  to  me  the 
quarrel  was  too  gratuitous  to  be  genuine." 

"You  think,  Bulldog,  that  Shipley  and  Seth 
worked  together  to  win  Hadley's  money — he  had 
six  thousand  in  Seth's  strong  box?" 

"I  can't  go  that  far,  even  to  you,  Jeanette.  But 
to-morrow  Seth  has  got  to  give  back  to  Hadley  what- 
ever he  has  won.  I've  got  one  of  the  cards  in  my 
pocket,  and  that  will  be  enough." 

"But  if  he  divides  with  Shipley?" 

"Shipley  will  have  to  cough  up  the  stolen  money, 
too,  because  then  the  conspiracy  will  be  proven." 

"Yes,  Bulldog.  I  guess  if  you  just  tell  them  to 
hand  the  money  back,  there'll  be  no  argument.  I 
can  go  to  bed  now  and  sleep,"  she  added,  patting 
Carney's  hand  with  her  slim  fingers.  "You  see,  if 
Seth  got  that  stranger's  money  away  it  wouldn't 
worry  him — the  moral  aspect,  I  mean;  but  somehow 
it  makes  it  terrible  for  me.  It's  discovering  small 
evil  in  a  man — petty  larceny,  sneak  thieving — that 
pours  sand  into  a  woman's  soul.  Good  night,  Bull- 
dog. I  think  if  I  were  only  your  sister  I'd  be  quite 
satisfied — quite." 

"You  are,"  Carney  said,  rising;  "we  are  seven— -> 
and  you  are  the  other  six,  Jeanette." 

As  a  rule  nothing  outside  of  a  tangible  actuality, 


SEVEN  BLUE  DOVES  209 

such  as  danger  that  had  to  be  guarded  against,  kept 
Carney  from  desired  slumber;  but  after  he  had 
turned  out  his  light  he  lay  wide  awake  for  half  an 
hour,  his  soul  full  of  the  abhorrent  repugnance  of 
Seth's  stealing. 

Carney's  code  was  such  that  he  could  shake  heart- 
ily by  the  hand,  or  drink  with,  a  man  who  had  held 
up  a  train,  or  fought  (even  to  the  death  of  some- 
one) the  Police  over  a  matter  of  whisky  or  opium 
running,  if  that  man  were  above  petty  larceny,  above 
stealing  from  a  man  who  had  confidence  in  him.  He 
lay  there  suffused  with  the  grim  satisfaction  of  know- 
ing how  completely  Seth,  and  possibly  Shipley,  would 
be  nonplussed  when  they  were  forced  on  the  morrow 
to  give  up  their  ill-gotten  gains.  That  would  be  a 
matter  purely  between  Carney  and  Seth.  The  prob- 
lem of  how  he  would  return  the  loot  to  Hadley  with- 
out telling  him  of  the  marked  pack,  was  not  yet 
solved.  Indeed,  this  little  mental  exercise,  like 
counting  sheep,  led  Carney  off  into  the  halls  of 
slumber. 

He  was  brought  back  from  the  rest  cavern  by 
something  that  left  him  sitting  bolt  upright  in  bed, 
correlating  the  disturbing  something  with  known  re- 
membrances of  the  noise. 

"Yes,  by  gad,  it  was  a  shot!" 

He  was  out  of  bed  and  at  the  window.  He  could 
have  sworn  that  a  shadow  had  flitted  in  the  dim 
moonlight  along  the  roadway  that  lay  beyond  the 
police  shack;  it  was  so  possible  this  aftermath  of 
card  cheating,  a  shot  and  someone  fleeing.  It  was  a 


210  BULLDOG  CAJINEY 

subconscious  conviction  that  caused  him  to  precipi- 
tate himself  into  his  clothes,  and  slip  his  gun  belt 
about  his  waist. 

In  the  hall  he  met  Jeanette,  her  great  mass  of 
black  hair  rippling  over  the  shoulders,  from  which 
draped  a  kimono.  The  lamp  in  her  hand  enhanced 
the  ghastly  look  of  horror  that  was  over  her  drawn 
face. 

"What's  wrong,  Jeanette — was  it  a  shot?" 

"Yes!  I've  looked  into  Seth's  room — he's  not 
there!" 

Without  speaking  Carney  tapped  on  a  door  al- 
most opposite  his  own;  there  was  no  answer,  and  he 
swung  it  open.  Then  he  closed  it  and  whispered: 
"Hadley's  not  in,  either;  fancy  they're  still  playing." 

Jeanette  pointed  a  finger  to  a  door  farther  down 
the  hall.  Carney  understood.  Again  he  tapped  on 
this  door,  opened  it,  peered  in,  closed  it,  and  coming 
back  to  Jeanette  whispered:  "Shipley's  not  there. 
Fancy  it  must  be  all  right — they're  still  playing.  I'll 
go  over  to  the  shack." 

"I'll  wait  till  you  come  back,  Bulldog.  It  isn't  all 
right.  I  never  felt  so  oppressed  in  my  life.  I  know 
something  dreadful  has  happened — I  know  it." 

Carney  touched  his  fingers  gently  to  the  girl's 
arm,  and  manufacturing  a  smile  of  reassurance,  said 
blithely:  "You've  eaten  a  slab  of  bacon,  a  la  fry- 
pan,  girl."  Then  he*  was  gone. 

As  he  rounded  the  hotel  corner  he  could  see  a 
lighted  lamp  in  a  window  of  the  police  shack.  This 


SEVEN  BLUE  DOVES 

was  curious;  it  hurried  his  pace,  for  they  were  not 
playing  at  the  table. 

He  threw  open  the  shack  door,  and  stood  just 
within,  looking  at  what  he  knew  was  a  dead  man — 
Seth  Long  sprawled  on  his  back  on  the  floor  where 
he  had  tumbled  from  a  chair.  His  shirt  front  was 
crimson  with  blood,  just  over  the  heart. 

There  was  no  evidence  of  a  struggle;  just  the 
chair  across  the  table  from  where  Seth  had  sat  was 
ominously  pushed  back  a  little.  The  red-backed 
cards  were  resting  on  the  corner  of  the  table  neatly 
gathered  into  a  pack. 

Cool-brained  Carney  stood  just  within  the  door, 
mentally  photographing  the  interior.  The  killing 
had  not  been  over  a  game  that  was  in  progress,  un- 
less the  murderer,  with  super-cunning,  had  rear- 
ranged the  tableau. 

Carney  stepped  to  beside  the  dead  man.  Seth's 
pistol  lay  close  to  his  outstretched  right  hand.  Car- 
ney picked  it  up,  and  broke  the  cartridges  from  the 
cylinder;  one  was  empty;  the  barrel  of  the  gun  was 
foul. 

Seth's  shirt  was  black  and  singed;  the  weapon 
that  killed  him  had  been  held  close. 

Carney's  brain,  running  with  the  swift,  silent  ve- 
locity of  a  spinning  top,  queried :  Was  the  killer  so 
super-clever  that  he  had  discharged  Seth's  gun  to 
make  it  appear  suicide? 

Subconsciously  the  marked  cards  that  probably 
had  led  up  to  this  murder  governed  Carney's  next 
move.  He  thrust  his  hand  in  the  pocket  of  the  coat 


212  BULLDOG  CARNEY 

where  Seth  had  put  the  discarded  pack — it  was 
gone.  He  felt  the  other  pocket — the  pack  was  not 
there.  A  quick  look  over  the  room,  table  and  all, 
failed  to  locate  the  missing  cards.  He  felt  the  inside 
pocket  of  the  coat  for  the  leather  wallet  that  con- 
tained Hadley's  money — there  was  no  wallet. 

At  that  instant  a  sinister  feeling  of  evil  caused 
Carney  to  stiffen,  his  eyes  to  set  in  a  look  of  wariness ; 
at  the  soft  click  of  a  boot  against  a  stone  his  gun 
was  out  and,  without  rising,  he  whipped  about. 

The  flickering  uncertain  lamplight  picked  out  from 
the  gloom  of  the  night  in  the  open  doorway  the  face 
of  Shipley.  Perhaps  it  was  the  goblin  light,  or  fear, 
or  malignant  satisfaction  that  caused  Shipley's  face 
to  appear  grotesquely  contorted ;  his  eyes  were  either 
gloating,  or  imbecile-tinged  by  horror. 

"My  God!  what's  happened,  Carney?"  he  asked. 
"Don't  cover  me,  I— I " 

"Come  into  the  light,  then,"  Carney  commanded. 

In  silent  obedience  Shipley  stepped  into  the  room, 
and  Carney,  passing  to  the  door,  peered  out.  Then 
he  closed  it,  and  dropped  his  gun  back  into  his 
belt. 

"What's  happened?"  Shipley  repeated.  And  the 
other,  listening  with  intensity,  noticed  that  the 
speaker's  voice  trembled. 

"Where  have  you  come  from  just  now?"  Carney 
asked,  ignoring  the  question. 

Shipley  drew  a  hand  across  his  eyes,  as  if  he  would 
compel  back  his  wandering  thoughts,  or  would  blot 


SEVEN  BLUE  DOVES  213 

out  the  horror  of  that  blood-smeared  figure  on  the 
floor. 

"I  went  for  a  walk,"  he  answered. 

"Why — when?"  Carney  snapped  imperiously. 

"I  quit  the  game  half  an  hour  ago,  and  thought 
I'd  walk  over  to  Cranford's  house;  the  smoking 
and  the  drinks  had  given  me  a  headache." 

"Why  to  Cranford's  house?" 

Shipley  threw  his  head  up  as  if  he  were  about  to 
resent  the  crisp  cross-examining,  but  Bulldog's  gray 
eyes,  always  compelling,  were  now  fierce. 

"Well,"— Shipley  coughed— "I  didn't  like  the 

looks  of  the  game  to-night;  that  ace  being  shy 

Didn't  you  feel  there  was  something  not  on  the 
level?" 

"I  didn't  take  that  walk  to  Cranford's!"  The 
deadliness  that  had  been  in  the  gray  eyes  was  in  the 
voice  now. 

"I  thought  that  if  Cranford  was  still  up  I'd  talk 
it  over  with  him ;  he'd  lost,  and  I  fancied  he  was  sore 
on  the  game." 

"What  did  Cranford  say?" 

"I  didn't  see  him.  I  tapped  on  his  door,  and  as 
he  didn't  answer  I — I  thought  he  was  asleep  and 

came  back.  I  saw  the  door  open  here,  and " 

Shipley  hesitated. 

"Did  you  leave  Seth  and  Hadley  playing?" 

"Yes." 

"And  you  didn't  see  either  of  them  again?'* 

"No." 


214  BULLDOG  CARNEY 

"Did  you  hear  a  shot?"  and  Carney  pointed  to- 
ward the  blood-stained  shirt. 

Shipley  looked  at  Carney  and  seemed  to  hesitate. 
"I  heard  something  ten  minutes  ago,  but  thought  it 
was  a  door  slamming.  Where's  Hadley — have  you 
seen  him?  Were  you  here  when  this  was  done?" 

"Come  on,"  Carney  said,  "we'll  go  back  to  the 
hotel  and  round  up  Hadley." 

As  they  went  out  Carney  locked  the  door,  the 
key  being  still  in  the  lock. 

When  the  two  men  entered  the  Gold  Nugget, 
Carney  stepped  behind  the  bar  and  turned  up  a  wall 
lamp  that  was  burning  low.  As  he  faced  about  he 
gave  a  start,  and  then  hurried  across  the  room  to 
where  a  figure  huddled  in  one  of  the  big  wooden  arm 
chairs.  It  was  Hadley — sound  asleep,  or  pretend- 
Ing  to  be. 

When  Carney  shook  him  the  sleeper  scrambled 
drunkenly  to  his  feet  blinking.  Then  the  boy  smile 
flitted  foolishly  over  his  lips,  anjd  he  mumbled: 
"I  say,  how  long  Ve  I  been  asleep — where's  Seth?" 

"What  are  you  doing  here  asleep?"  Carney  asked, 
the  crisp  incisiveness  of  his  voice  wakening  com- 
pletely the  rather  fogged  man. 

"I  sat  down  to  wait  for  Seth.  Guess  the  whisky 
made  me  sleepy — had  a  little  too  much  of  it." 

"Where  did  you  leave  Seth — how  long  ago?" 

"Over  at  the  police  shack;  we  quit  the  game  and 
Seth  said  he'd  tidy  up  for  fear  the  Sergeant'd  be 
back  in  the  morning — throw  out  the  empty  bottles, 
and  pick  up  the  cigar  stubs  and  matches,  kind  of 


SEVEN  BLUE  DOVES  215 

tidy  up.  I  came  on  to  go  to  bed  and "  Hadley 

spoke  haltingly,  as  though  his  memory  of  his  prog- 
ress was  still  befogged — "when  I  got  here  I  re- 
membered that  he'd  got  my  wallet,  and  thought  I'd 
sit  down  and  wait  so's  to  be  sure  he  didn't  forget  to 
put  it  back  in  the  iron  box." 

"Did  you  have  a  row  with  Seth  when  you  broke 
up  the  game?" 

Hadley  flushed.  He  was  in  a  slightly  stupid  con- 
dition. During  his  nap  the  whisky  had  sullenly 
subsided,  leaving  him  a  touch  maudlin,  surly. 

"I  don't  see  what  right  you've  got  to  ask  that; 
I  guess  that's  a  matter  between  two  men." 

Carney  fastened  his  piercing  eyes  on  the  speaker's, 
and  shot  out  with  startling  suddenness :  "Seth  Long 
has  been  murdered — do  you  know  that?" 

"What — what — what' re  you  saying?" 

Hadley's  mouth  remained  open;  it  was  like  the 
gaping  mouth  of  a  gasping  fish;  his  eyes  had  been 
startled  into  a  wide  horrified  wonder  look. 

"Seth — murdered!"  then  he  grinned  foolishly. 
"By  God!  you  Westerners  pull  some  rough  stuff. 
That's  not  good  form  to  spring  a  joke  like  that; 
I'm  a  tenderfoot,  but " 

"Stop  it!"  Carney  snarled;  "do  you  think  I'm  a 
damned  fool.  Seth  has  been  shot  through  the  heart, 
and  you  were  the  last  man  with  him.  I  want  from 
you  all  you  know.  We've  got  to  catch  the  right 
man,  not  the  wrong  man — do  you  get  that,  Hadley?" 

The  fierceness  of  this  toniced  the  man  with  a 
hang-over,  cleared  his  fuzzy  brain. 


216  BULLDOG  CARNEY 

"My  God!  I  don't  know  anything  about  it.  I 
left  Seth  Long  at  the  police  shack,  and  I  don't  know 
anything  more  about  him." 

There  was  a  step  on  the  stairway.  Carney  turned 
as  Jeanette  came  through  the  door.  He  went  to 
meet  her,  and  turned  her  back  into  the  hall  where  he 
said: 

"Steady  yourself,  girl.  Something  has  hap- 
pened." 

"I  know — I  heard  you;  I'm  steady."  She  put  her 
hand  in  his,  and  he  pressed  it  reassuringly.  Then 
he  whispered: 

"I'm  going  to  leave  you  with  these  two  men  while 
I  get  Dr.  Anderson,  and  I  want  you  to  see  if 
either  of  these  men  leaves  the  room,  or  attempts  to 
hide  anything — I  can't  search  them.  Do  you  un- 
derstand, Jeanette?" 

"Yes." 

He  came  back  to  the  room  with  the  girl  and  said: 

"I'm  going  for  the  coroner,  Dr.  Anderson,  and 
for  your  own  sakes,  gentlemen,  I'll  ask  you  to  wait 
here  in  this  room — it  will  be  better." 

Then  he  was  gone. 

In  twenty  minutes  he  was  back  with  Dr.  Ander- 
son. On  their  way  to  the  hotel  Carney  and  the 
Doctor  had  gone  into  the  police  shack  to  make  cer- 
tain, through  medical  examination,  that  Seth  was 
dead. 

Upon  their  entry  Jeanette  had  gone  upstairs,  the 
Doctor  suggesting  this. 

Dr.  Anderson  was  a  Scotchman,  absolute,  with  all 


SEVEN  BLUE  DOVES  217 

that  the  name  implies  in  canny  conservative  stub- 
born adherence  to  things  as  they  are;  the  appar- 
ent consistencies. 

Here  was  a  man  murdered  in  cold  blood;  he  was 
the  only  one  to  be  considered;  he  was  the  wronged 
party;  the  others  were  to  be  viewed  with  suspicion 
until  by  process  of  elimination  they  had  been  cleared 
of  guilt.  So  there  was  no  doubt  whatever  but  that 
Carney  had  as  good  a  claim  as  any  of  them  to  the 
title  of  assassin. 

In  the  flurry  of  it  all  Carney  had  not  thought  of 
this. 

When  the  three  stories  had  been  told,  Dr.  Ander- 
son said: 

"Sergeant  Black  will  be  back  to-morrow,  I  think; 
then  we'll  take  action.  I'd  advise  you  gentlemen  to 
remain  in  statu  quo,  if  I  might  use  the  term. 
There's  one  thing  that  ought  to  be  done,  though; 
I  think  you'll  agree  with  me  that  it  is  advisable  for 
each  man's  sake.  A  wallet  with  a  large  sum  of 
money  has  disappeared  from  the  murdered  man's 
pocket,  and  as  each  one  of  you  will  be  more  or  less 
under  suspicion — I'm  speaking  now  just  in  the  way 
of  forecasting  what  that  unsympathetic  individual, 
the  law,  will  doi — it  would  be  as  well  for  each  of  you 
to  submit  to  a  search  of  your  person.  I  have  no 
authority  to  demand  this,  but  it's  expedient." 

To  this  the  three  agreed;  Hadley,  with  a  sort  of 
repugnance,  and  Shipley  with,  perhaps,  an  overzeal- 
ous  compliance,  Carney  thought.  There  was  no 
trace  of  the  wallet. 


218  BULLDOG  CARNEY 

Carney  had  said  nothing  about  the  missing  cards, 
but  neither  were  they  found. 

No  pistol  was  found  on  Hadley,  but  a  short-bar- 
reled gun  was  discovered  in  Shipley's  hip  pocket. 

The  Doctor  broke  the  weapon,  and  his  eyebrows 
drew  down  in  a  frown  ominously — there  was  an 
empty  chamber  in  the  cylinder. 

"There're  only  five  bullets  here,"  he  said,  his  keen 
eyes  resting  on  Shipley's  face. 

"Yes,  I  always  load  it  that  way,  leaving  the  ham- 
mer at  the  empty  chamber,  so  that  if  it  falls  and 
strikes  on  the  hammer  it  can't  explode." 

With  an  "Ugh-huh!"  Anderson  looked  through 
the  barrel.  It  was  of  an  indeterminate  murkiness; 
this  might  be  due  to  not  having  been  cleaned  for  a 
long  time,  or  a  recent  discharge. 

"I'd  better  retain  this  gun,  if  you  don't  mind," 
he  said. 

Shipley  agreed  to  this  readily.  Then  he  said,  in 
a  hesitating,  apologetic  way  that  was  really  more 
irritating  than  if  he  had  blurted  it  out:  "Mr.  Car- 
ney, as  I  have  stated,  was  discovered  by  me  stand- 
ing over  the  dead  man  with  a  gun  in  his  hand.  I 
think  as  this  point  will  certainly  be  brought  up  at 
any  examination,  that  Mr.  Carney,  in  justice  to  him- 
self, should  let  the  Doctor  examine  his  weapon  to 
see  that  it  has  not  lately  been  discharged." 

Carney  started,  for  he  fancied  there  was  a  direct 
implication  in  this.  But  the  Doctor  spoke  quickly, 
brusquely.  "Most  certainly  he  should — I  clean  for- 
got it." 


SEVEN  BLUE  DOVES  219 

Carney  drew  the  gun  from  its  leather  pocket, 
broke  it,  and  six  lead-nosed  .45  shells  rolled  on  the 
table ;  not  one  of  the  shells  had  lost  its  bullet.  He 
passed  the  gun  to  Dr.  Anderson,  who,  pointing  it 
toward  the  light,  looked  through  the  barrel. 

"As  bright  as  a  silver  dollar,"  he  commented, 
relief  in  his  voice;  "I'm  glad  we  thought  of  this." 

Carney  slipped  the  shells  back  into  the  cylinder, 
and  dropped  the  gun  into  its  holster  without  com- 
ment. 

Then  the  Doctor  said:  "We  can't  do  anything 
to-night — we'll  only  obliterate  any  tracks  and  lose 
good  clues.  We'll  take  it  up  in  the  morning.  You 
men  have  got  to  clear  yourselves,  so  I'd  just  rest 
quiet,  if  I  were  you.  If  we  go  poking  about  we'll 
have  the  whole  town  about  our  ears.  I'm  glad  that 
nobody  thought  it  worth  while  to  investigate  if  they 
heard  the  shot." 

"A  shot  in  Bucking  Horse  doesn't  mean  much," 
Carney  said,  "just  a  drunken  miner,  or  an  Indiar. 
playing  brave." 

It  seemed  to  Carney  that  Anderson  had  rather 
hurried  the  closing  out  of  the  matter,  that  is,  tem- 
porarily. It  occurred  to  him  that  the  Scotchman's 
herring-hued  eyes  were  asking  him  to  acquiesce  in 
what  was  being  done. 

Carney  lingered  when  Shipley  and  Hadley  had 
gone  to  bed. 

The  Scotch  Doctor  had  filled  a  pipe,  and  Bulldog 
noticed  that  as  he  puffed  vigorously  at  its  stem  his 
eyes  had  wandered  several  times  to  the  platoon  of 


220  BULLDOG  CARNEY 

black  bottles  ranged  with  military  precision  behind 
the  bar. 

"I'm  tired  over  this  devilish  thing,"  Carney  re- 
marked casually,  and  passing  behind  the  bar  he 
brought  out  a  bottle  and  two  glasses,  adding, 
"Would  you  mind  joining?" 

"I'd  like  it,  man.  Good  whisky  is  like  good  law — 
a  wee  bit  of  it  is  very  fine,  too  much  of  it  is  as  bad 
as  roguery." 

The  Doctor  quaffed  with  zest  the  liquid,  wiped  his 
lips  with  a  florid  red  handkerchief,  took  a  puff  at 
the  evil-smelling  pipe,  and  said : 

"Court's  over!  A  minute  ago  I  was  'Jeffries, 
the  Hangin'  Judge,'  and  to-morrow,  as  coroner, 
I'll  be  as  veecious  no  doubt;  now,  ad  interim  (the 
Doctor  was  fond  of  a  legal  phrase),  I'm  going  to 
talk  to  you,  Bulldog,  as  man  to  man,  because  I  want 
your  help  to  pin  the  right  devil.  And  besides,  I 
have  a  soft  spot  in  my  heart  for  Jeanette — perhaps 
it's  just  her  Scotch  name,  I'm  not  sayin'.  In  the 
first  place,  Bulldog,  has  it  struck  you  that  you're 
in  fair  runnin'  to  be  selected  as  the  man  that  killed 
Seth?" 

Carney  laughed;  then  he  looked  quizzically  at  the 
speaker;  but  he  could  see  that  the  latter  was  in 
deadly  earnest. 

"Mind,"  the  Doctor  resumed,  "personally  I  know 
you  didn't  do  it;  that's  because  I  know  you  devilish 
well — you're  too  big  for  such  small-brained  acts. 
But  the  law  is  a  godless  machine ;  its  way  is  like  the 


SEVEN  BLUE  DOVES  221 

way  of  a  brick  mason — facts  are  the  bricks  that  make 
the  structure." 

"But  the  law  always  searches  for  the  motive, 
and  why  should  I  kill  Seth,  who  was  more  or  less 
a  friend?" 

"All  the  worse.  As  a  matter  of  fact  there  are 
more  slayings  over  strained  friendships  than  over 
the  acquisition  of  gold.  But  don't  you  remember 
what  that  foul-mouthed  brute,  Kootenay  Jim,  said 
when  Jeanette's  brother  was  near  lynched?" 

Carney  stared;  then  a  little  flush  crept  over  his 
lean  tanned  face : 

"You  mean,  Doctor,  about  Jeanette  and  myself?" 

"Aye." 

Carney  nodded,  holding  himself  silent  in,  sup- 
pressed bitterness. 

"The  same  evil  mouths  will  repeat  that,  Bulldog. 
And  here  are  the  bricks  for  the  law's  building. 
Shipley  will  swear  that  he  found  you  bending  over 
the  murdered  man  with  a  gun  in  one  hand  search- 
ing his  pockets.  And  I  noticed,  though  I  didn't 
speak  of  it,  there  was  blood  on  your  hands." 

Startled,  Carney  looked  at  his  fingers;  they  were 
blood-stained.  Then  he  drew  his  gun,  saying,  "God  I 
and  there's  blood  on  this  thing,  too!" 

"There  is;  I  saw  it  on  the  butt.  And  though  you 
broke  it  here  before  us  to-night  to  show  that  it  hadn't 
been  discharged,  Sergeant  Black,  while  he's  thick- 
headed, will  perhaps  have  wit  enough  to  say  that 
you  were  off  by  yourself  when  you  came  for  me, 
and  could  have  cleaned  house." 


BULLDOG  CARNEY 

"And  that  swine,  Shipley — do  you  suppose  he 
thought  of  that,  too  ?" 

"I  think  he  did:  I  did  at  the  time,  though  I  said 
nothing.  You  see,  Carney,  innocent  or  guilty,  he 
naturally  wants  to  clear  himself,  and  he  took  a 
chance.  If  he's  innocent  he  may  really  think  that 
you  killed  Seth,  and  hoped  to  find  the  proof  of  it 
in  a  smudged  gun  and  an  empty  shell;  and  if  he's 
guilty,  he  was  directing  suspicion  towards  you, 
knowing  that  the  clean  gun  would  be  nothing  in  your 
favor  at  the  examination  as  you  had  had  the  oppor- 
tunity to  put  it  right.  I  don't  like  the  incident,  nor 
the  man's  spirit,  but  it  proves  nothing  for  or  against 
him.  I  expect  he's  clever  enough  to  know  that  the 
last  man  seen  with  a  murdered  man  is,  de  facto,  the 
slayer." 

"As  to  the  matter  of  the  gun,"  Carney  said,  "I've 
an  idea  Seth  was  killed  with  his  own  gun.  He  was 
in  a  grouchy  mood  to-night — he  always  was  a  damn 
fool — and  he  may  have  pulled  his  gun,  in  his  usual 
bluffing  way,  and  the  other  party  twisted  it  out  of  his 
hand  and  shot  him.  I  only  heard  one  shot."  Car- 
ney remained  silent  for  a  full  minute;  then  he  said: 

"One  doesn't  care  to  bring  a  good  woman's  name 
into  anything  that's  evil,  but  I  fancy  I'd  better  tell 
you :  Jeanette  was  wakened  by  the  shot  that  wak- 
ened me,  and  we  talked  in  the  hall  before  I  went 
over  to  the  police  shack." 

"That'll  be  valuable  evidence  to  establish  your 
alibi,  Bulldog — in  the  eyes  of  the  law,  in  the  eyes 
of  the  law." 


SEVEN  BLUE  DOVES  223 

Then  the  Doctor  puffed  moodily  at  his  pipe,  and 
Carney  could  read  the  writing  on  the  wall  in  the 
irritable  little  balloons  of  smoke  that  went  up,  th« 
Doctor's  unexpressed  meaning  that  gossips  would 
say  Jeanette  had  sworn  falsely  to  clear  him. 

Anderson  resumed: 

"Hadley  was  evidently  the  last  man  playing  cards 
with  Seth,  and  there  was  considerable  money  at 
stake;  that  he  was  still  up  when  the  murder  was  dis- 
covered— these  things  are  against  him.  Supposing 
he  did  shoot  Seth,  he  might  have  come  to  the  hotel 
and,  seeing  a  light  in  the  upper  hall  and  hearing 
Jeanette  moving  about,  might  have  sat  in  that  dark 
corner  till  things  had  quieted  down  before  going  to 
his  room." 

"Hadley  isn't  the  kind  to  commit  murder." 

"To-night  he  was  another  kind  of  man — he  was 
pretty  drunk;  and  the  man  that's  drunk  is  like  an 
engine  that  had  lost  the  governing  balls — he  has  lost 
control.  And  the  shock  of  the  murder  may  have 
sobered  him  enough  to  make  him  a  bit  cautious." 

"But  Shipley  was  out,  too,"  Carney  objected. 

"Aye,  he  was;  and  he's  got  a  devilish  lame  story 
about  going  to  see  Cranford.  I  don't  like  his  face — 
it's  avariciously  vicious — he's  greedy.  But  the  law 
can't  hang  a  man  for  having  a  bad  face;  it  takes 
little  stock  in  the  physiologist's  point  of  view." 

Carney  sat  thinking  hard.  The  full  significance 
of  the  attached  possibilities  had  been  put  clearly 
before  him  by  the  astute,  canny  Scotchman,  and  he 


BULLDOG  CARNEY 

realized  that  it  was  friendship.  He  was  certain  the 
Doctor  suspected  Shipley. 

"I  wanted  to  get  shut  of  yon  two,"  the  Doctor 
added,  presently,  "for  you're  the  man  that  needs  to 
get  this  cleared  up,  and  you're  the  man  can  do  it, 
even  as  you  caught  Jack  the  Wolf.  Is  there  any 
clue  that  we  can  follow  up  before  the  trail  gets  cold?" 

"There  is,  Doctor.  There  was  a  pack  of  marked 
cards  in  Seth's  pocket,  and  they're  gone." 

"The  man  that  has  that  pack  is  the  murderer," 
Dr.  Anderson  declared  emphatically. 

"He  is." 

"And  the  wallet." 

"Yes." 

Then  Carney  explained  to  the  Doctor  that  the 
marked  pack  had  evidently  belonged  to  Seth,  and 
told  of  the  change  in  cards,  and  the  possibility  that 
Shipley  had  stood  in  with  Seth  on  the  winnings,  let- 
ting the  latter  do  all  the  dirty  work,  perhaps  helping 
Seth's  game  along  by  raising  the  bet  when  he  knew 
that  Seth  held  the  winning  cards. 

Again  the  Doctor  consulted  his  old  briar  pipe; 
then  he  said:  "Either  Shipley  or  somebody  was  in 
collusion  with  Seth,  you  think?" 

"Yes." 

"If  we  could  get  that  man—?" 

"Look  here,  Doctor,"  and  Carney  put  his  hand  on 
the  other's  knee,  "whoever  has  got  that  money  will 
not  try  to  take  it  out  over  the  railroad,  for  it  was  in 
fifty-dollar  bills  of  the  Bank  of  Toronto." 

"I  comprehend :  the  wires,  and  the  police  at  every, 


SEVEN  BLUE  DOVES  225 

important  point;  a  search.  Aye,  aye!  What'll  he 
do,  Bulldog?" 

"He'll  go  out  over  the  thieves'  highway,  down  the 
border  trail  to  Montana  or  Idaho." 

"My  guidness!  I  think  you're  right.  Perhaps 
before  morning  somebody  may  be  headin'  south  with 
the  loot.  If  it's  Shipley — I  mean,  anybody — he  may 
have  a  colleague  to  take  the  money  down  over  the 
border." 

"Yes,  the  money;  he'll  not  try  to  handle  it  in 
Canada  for  fear  of  being  trapped  on  the  numbers." 

"So  you  might  not  get  the  murderer  after  all," 
Anderson  said,  meditatively;  "just  an  accomplice 
who  wouldn't  squeal." 

"No;  not  with  the  money  alone  on  him  we 
wouldn't  have  just  what  I  want,  but  when  we  get  a 
man  with  the  marked  pack  in  his  pocket  that's  the 
murderer.  It  was  devilish  fatalism  that  made  him 
take  that  pack,  like  a  man  will  cling  to  an  old  pocket- 
knife;  they're  the  tools  of  his  trade,  so  to  speak. 
And  here  in  the  mountains  he  could  not  handily  come 
by  another  pack,  perhaps." 

"I  comprehend.  If  the  slayer  goes  down  that 
trail  he'll  have  the  marked  cards  with  him  still,  but 
if  he  sends  an  accomplice  the  man'll  just  have  the 
money  on  him.  Very  logical,  Bulldog." 

Twice  as  they  had  talked  Carney  had  stepped 
quickly,  silently,  to  the  door  at  the  foot  of  the  stair- 
way and  listened;  now  he  came  back,  and  lowering 
his  voice,  said:  "I  get  you,  Doctor;  it's  devilish 
square  of  you.  I'm  clear  of  this  thing,  I  fancy,  a& 


BULLDOG  CARNEY 

you  say,  in  the  eye  of  the  law,  but  for  a  good  woman's 
sake  I've  got  to  get  the  murderer." 

"It  would  be  commendable,  Carney,  if  you  can." 

"Well,  then,  give  these  other  men  plenty  of  rope." 

"I  comprehend,"  and  Dr.  Anderson  nodded  his 
head. 

"I've  got  a  man — 'Oregon'  he's  known  as — down 
at  Big  Horn  Crossing;  he's  there  for  my  work;  I'm 
going  to  pull  out  to-night  and  tell  'Oregon'  to  search 
every  man  that  rides  the  border  trail  going  south." 

"I  don't  know  whether  I  can  give  you  the  proper 
authority,  Bulldog — I'll  look  it  up  with  the  town 
clerk."  ' 

Carney  laughed,  a  soft,  throaty  chuckle  of  honest 
amusement. 

Piqued,  the  Doctor  said  irritably,  "You're  think- 
ing, Bulldog,  that  the  little  town  clerk  and  myself  are 
somewhat  of  a  joke  as  representing  authority,  eh?" 

"No,  indeed,  Doctor.  I  was  thinking  of  'Oregon.' 
He's  got  his  authority  for  everything,  got  it  right 
in  his  belt;  he'll  search  his  man  first  and  explain 
afterwards;  and  when  he  gets  the  right  man  he'll 
bring  him  in.  First,  I'm  going  to  make  a  cast 
around  the  police  shack  with  a  lantern.  Even  by  its 
light  I  may  pick  up  some  information.  I'll  get 
Jeanette  to  stake  me  to  a  couple  of  days'  grub;  I'll 
take  some  oats  for  the  buckskin  and  be  back  in  three 
days." 

"I'll  wait  here  till  you  have  a  look,"  the  Doctor 
declared;  "there  might  be  some  clue  you'd  be  leaving 
with  me  to  follow  up." 


SEVEN  BLUE  DOVES  227 

Carney  secured  a  reflector  lantern  from  a  back 
room  and,  first  kneeling  down,  examined  the  foot- 
steps that  had  been  left  in  the  soft  black  earth 
around  the  police  shack  door.  He  seemed  to  dis- 
cover a  trial,  for  he  skirted  the  building,  stooping 
down  with  the  lantern  held  close  to  the  ground,  and 
once  more  knelt  under  a  back  window.  Here  there 
were  tracks  of  a  heavy  foot;  some  that  indicated 
that  a  man  had  stood  for  some  time  there;  that 
sometimes  he  had  been  peering  in  the  window,  the 
toe  prints  almost  touching  the  wall.  There  were 
two  deeply  indented  heel  marks  as  if  somebody  had 
dropped  from  the  window. 

Carney  put  up  his  hand  and  tested  the  lower  half 
of  the  sash.  He  could  shove  it  up  quite  easily.  Next 
he  drew  a  sheet  of  paper  from  his  pocket — it  was 
really  an  old  letter — and  with  his  pocket-knife  cut 
it  to  fit  a  footprint  that  was  in  the  earth.  Then  he 
returned  to  the  front  door,  and  with  his  paper  gauge 
tested  the  different  foot  imprints,  following  them  a 
piece  as  they  lead  away  from  the  shack.  He  stood 
up  and  rubbed  his  chin  thoughtfully,  his  brows  drawn 
into  a  heavy  frown  of  reflection,  ending  by  starting 
off  at  a  fast  pace  that  carried  him  to  the  edge  of 
the  little  town. 

In  front  of  a  small  log  shack  he  stooped  and  com- 
pared the  paper  in  his  hand  with  some  footprints. 
He  seemed  puzzled,  for  there  were  different  boot 
tracks,  and  the  one — the  latest,  he  judged,  for  they 
topped  the  others — was  toeing  away  from  the  shack. 

He  straightened  up   and  knocked  on  the  door. 


228  BULLDOG  CARNEY 

There  was  no  answer.  He  knocked  again  loudly;  no 
answer.  He  shook  the  door  by  the  iron  handle 
until  the  latch  clattered  like  a  castanet:  there  was 
no  sound  from  within.  He  stepped  to  a  window, 
tapped  on  it  and  called,  "Cranford,  Cranford!" 
The  gloomed  stillness  of  the  shack  convinced  him 
that  Cranford  had  gone — perhaps,  as  he  had  inti- 
mated, to  Bald  Rock. 

He  went  back  and  fitted  the  paper  into  the  top- 
most tracks,  those  heading  away  from  the  shack. 
The  paper  did  not  seem  to  fit — not  quite;  in  fact, 
the  other  track  was  closer  to  the  paper  gauge. 

Back  at  the  hotel  he  related  to  Dr.  Anderson  the 
result  of  his  trailing. 

When  he  spoke  of  Cranford's  absence  from  the 
shack,  the  Doctor  involuntarily  exclaimed:  "My 
God !  that  does  complicate  matters.  I  was  thinking 
we  might  get  a  double  hitch  on  yon  Shipley  by  prov- 
ing from  Cranford  he  hadn't  been  near  the  latter' s 
shack.  But  now  it  involves  Cranford,  if  he's  gone. 
He's  an  unlucky  devil,  that,  and  I  know,  on  the 
quiet,  that  he's  likely  to  get  in  trouble  over  some 
payments  on  a  mine, — they're  threatening  a  suit  for 
misappropriation  of  funds  or  something." 

"You  see,  Doctor,"  Carney  said,  "the  sooner  I 
block  the  likely  get-away  game  the  better." 

"Yes.  You  pull  out  as  soon  as  you  like.  I'll 
have  a  search  for  Cranford,  and  I'll  generally  keep 
things  in  shape  till  Sergeant  Black  comes — likely 
to-morrow  he'll  be  here.  I'll  hold  an  inquest  and, 
of  course,  the  verdict  will  be  'by  someone  un- 


SEVEN  BLUE  DOVES  229 

known.'  I'll  say  that  you've  gone  to  hurry  in  Ser- 
geant Black." 

When  the  Doctor  had  gone  Carney  went  up- 
stairs to  where  Jeanette  was  waiting  for  him  in  the 
little  front  sitting  room. 

With  her  there  was  little  beyond  just  the  horror 
of  the  terrible  ending  to  it.  Her  life  with  Seth  Long 
had  been  a  curious  one,  curious  in  its  absolute  empti- 
ness of  everything  but  just  an  arrangement.  There 
was  no  affection,  no  pretense  of  it.  She  was  like  a 
niece,  or  even  a  daughter,  to  Seth;  their  relationship 
had  been  practically  on  that  basis.  Her  father  had 
been  a  partner  of  Long  in  some  of  his  enterprises, 
enterprises  that  had  never  been  much  of  anything 
beyond  final  failure.  When  his  partner  had  died 
Seth  had  assumed  charge  of  the  girl.  It  was  per- 
haps the  one  redeeming  feature  in  Seth's  ordinary 
useless  life. 

Now  Jeanette  and  Carney  hardly  touched  on  the 
past  which  they  both  knew  so  well,  or  the  future 
about  which,  just  now,  they  knew  nothing. 

Carney  explained,  as  delicately  as  he  could,  the 
situation;  the  desirability  of  his  clearing  his  name 
absolutely,  independent  of  her  evidence,  by  finding 
the  murderer.  He  really  held  in  his  mind  a  some- 
what nebulous  theory.  He  had  not  confided  this 
fully  to  Dr.  Anderson,  nor  did  he  now  to  Jean- 
ette; just  told  her  that  he  was  going  away  for  two 
or  three  days  and  would  be  supposed  to  have  gone 
after  the  Mounted  Policeman. 

He  told  Her  about  the  disappearance  of  the  marked 


230  BULLDOG  CARNEY 

pack,  and  explained  how  much  depended  upon  the 
discovery  of  its  present  possessor. 

PART  II 

IT  was  within  an  hour  of  daybreak  when  Carney, 
astride  his  buckskin,  slipped  quietly  out  of  Bucking 
Horse,  and  took  the  trail  that  skirted  the  tortuous 
stream  toward  the  south.  He  had  had  no  sleep, 
but  that  didn't  matter;  for  two  or  three  days  and 
nights  at  a  stretch  he  could  go  without  sleep  when 
necessary.  Perhaps  when  he  spelled  for  breakfast, 
as  the  buckskin  fed  on  the  now  drying  autumn  grass, 
he  would  snatch  a  brief  half  hour  of  slumber,  and 
again  at  noon ;  that  would  be  quite  enough. 

When  the  light  became  strong  he  examined  the 
trail.  There  were  several  tracks,  cayuse  tracks,  the 
larger  footprints  of  what  were  called  bronchos,  the 
track  of  pack  mules;  they  were  coming  and  going. 
But  they  were  cold  trails,  seemingly  not  one  fresh. 
Little  cobwebs,  like  gossamer  wings,  stretched  across 
the  sunken  bowl-like  indentations,  and  dew  sparkled 
on  the  silver  mesh  like  jewels  in  the  morning  sun. 

It  was  quite  ten  o'clock  when  Carney  discovered 
the  footprints  of  a  pony  that  were  evidently  fresh; 
here  and  there  the  outcupped  black  earth  where  the 
cayuse  had  cantered  glistened  fresh  in  the  sunlight. 

Carney  could  not  say  just  where  the  cayuse  had 
struck  the  trial  he  was  on.  It  gave  him  a  depressed 
feeling.  Perhaps  the  rider  carried  the  loot,  and 
had  circled  to  escape  interception.  But  when  Car- 


SEVEN  BLUE  DOVES  231 

ney  came  to  the  cross  trail  that  ran  from  Fort  Steel 
to  Kootenay  the  cayuse  tracks  turned  to  the  right 
toward  Kootenay,  and  he  felt  a  conviction  that  the 
rider  was  not  associated  with  the  murder.  With 
that  start  he  would  be  heading  for  across  the  border; 
he  would  not  make  for  a  Canadian  town  where  he 
would  be  in  touch  with  the  wires. 

Along  the  border  trail  there  were  no  fresh  tracks. 

It  was  toward  evening  when  Carney  passed 
through  the  Valley  of  the  Grizzley's  Bridge — past 
the  gruesome  place  where  Fourteen-foot  Johnson 
had  been  killed  by  Jack  the  Wolf;  past  where  he 
himself  had  been  caught  in  the  bear  trap. 

The  buckskin  remembered  it  all;  he  was  in  a 
hurry  to  get  beyond  it;  he  clattered  over  the  nar- 
row, winding,  up-and-down  footpath  with  the  eager 
hasty  step  of  a  fleeing  goat,  his  head  swinging  nerv- 
ously, his  big  lop  ears  weaving  back  and  forth  in 
apprehension. 

Well  beyond  the  Valley  of  the  Grizzley's  Bridge, 
past  the  dark  maw  of  the  cave  in  which  Jack  the 
Wolf  had  hidden  the  stolen  gold,  Carney  went, 
camping  in  the  valley,  that  had  now  broadened  out, 
when  its  holding  walls  of  mountain  sides  had  blank- 
eted the  light  so  that  he  travelled  along  an  obliter- 
ated trail,  obliterated  to  aL  but  the  buckskin's  finer 
sense  of  perception. 

At  the  first  graying  of  the  eastern  sky  he  was  up, 
and  after  a  snatch  of  breakfast  for  himself  and  the 
buckskin,  hurrying  south  again.  No  one  had  passed 
in  the  night  for  Carney  had  slept  on  one  side  of 


BULLDOir  CARNEY 

the  trail  while  the  horse  fed  or  rested  on  the  other, 
with  a  picket  line  stretched  between  them :  and  there 
were  no  fresh  tracks. 

At  two  o'clock  he  came  to  the  little  log  shack  just 
this  side  of  the  U.  S.  border  where  Oregon  kept  his 
solitary  ward.  Nobody  had  passed,  Oregon  ad- 
vised; and  Carney  gave  the  old  man  his  instructions, 
which  were  to  search  any  passer,  and  if  he  had  the 
fifty-dollar  bills  or  the  marked  cards,  hobble  him 
and  bring  him  back  to  Bucking  Horse. 

Over  a  pan  of  bacon  and  a  pot  of  strong  tea  Ore- 
gon reported  to  his  superior  all  the  details  of  their 
own  endeavor,  which,  in  truth,  was  opium  running. 
That  was  his  office,  to  drift  across  the  line  casually, 
back  and  forth,  as  a  prospector,  and  keep  posted 
as  to  customs  officers;  who  they  were,  where  the 
kind-hearted  ones  were,  and  where  the  fanatical  ones 
were;  for  once  Carney  had  been  ambushed,  practi- 
cally illegally,  five  miles  within  Canadian  territory, 
and  had  had  to  fight  his  way  out,  leaving  twenty 
thousand  dollars'  worth  of  opium  in  the  hand  of  a 
tyrannical  customs  department. 

At  four  o'clock  Carney  sat  the  buckskin,  and 
reached  down  to  grasp  the  hand  of  his  lieutenant. 

"I'll  tell  you,  Bulldog,"  the  latter  said,  swinging 
his  eyes  down  the  valley  toward  the  southwest, 
"there's  somethin'  brewin'  in  the  way  of  weather. 
My  hip  is  pickin'  a  quarrel  with  that  flat-nosed  bit 
of  lead  that's  been  nestin'  in  a  j'int,  until  I  just  nat- 
ural feel  as  if  somebody'd  fresh  plugged  me." 

Carney  laughed,  for  the  day  was  glorious.     The 


SEVEN  BLUE  DOVES  233 

valley  bed  through  which  wandered,  now  sluggishly, 
a  green-tinged  stream,  lay  like  a  glorious  oriental 
rug,  its  colors  rich-tinted  by  the  warm  flood  of  golden 
light  that  hung  in  the  cedar  and  pine  perfumed  air. 
The  lower  reaches  of  the  hills  on  either  side  were 
crimson,  and  gold,  and  pink,  and  purple,  and  emerald 
green,  all  softened  into  a  gentle  maze-like  tapestry 
where  the  gaillardias  and  monkshood  and  wolf-wil- 
low and  salmonberry  and  saskatoon  bushes  caressed 
each  other  in  luxurious  profusion,  their  floral  bloom 
preserved  in  autumn  tawny  richness  by  the  dry  moun- 
tain air. 

And  this  splendor  of  God's  artistry,  this  won- 
drous great  tapestry,  was  hung  against  the  sombre 
green  wall  of  a  pine  and  fir  forest  that  zigzagged 
and  stood  in  blocks  all  up  the  mountain  side  like 
the  design  of  some  giant  cubist. 

Carney  laughed  and  swung  his  gloved  hand  in  a 
semicircle  of  derision. 

"It's  purty,"  Oregon  said,  "it's  purty,  but  I've 
seen  a  purty  woman,  all  smilin'  too,  break  out  in  a 
hell  of  a  temper  afore  you  could  say  'hands  up.' 
My  hip  don't  never  make  no  mistakes,  'cause  it  ain't 
got  no  fancies.  It's  a-comin'.  You  ride  like  hell, 
Carney;  it's  a-comin'.  Say,  Bulldog,  look  at  that," 
and  Oregon's  long,  lean,  not  over-clean  finger  pointed 
to  the  buckskin's  head ;  "he  knows  as  well  as  I  do 
that  the  Old  Man  of  the  Mountains  is  cookin'  up 
somethin'.  See  'em  mule  lugs  of  his — see  the  white 
of  that  eye  ?  And  he  ain't  takin'  in  no  purty  scenery, 
he's  lookin'  over  his  shoulder  down  off  there,"  and 


234  BULLDOG  CARNEY 

Oregon  stretched  a  long  arm  toward  the  west, 
toward  the  home  of  the  blue-green  mountains  of  ice, 
the  glaciers. 

"It's  too  early  for  a  blizzard,"  Carney  contended. 

"It  might  be,  if  they  run  on  schedule  time  like 
the  trains,  but  they  don't.  I  froze  to  death  once 
in  one  in  September.  I  come  back  to  life  again, 
'cause  I'd  been  good  always;  and  perhaps,  Bulldog, 
your  record  mightn't  let  you  out  if  you  got  caught 
between  here  and  Buckin'  Horse  in  a  real  he-game 
of  snow  hell'ry.  The  trail  runs  mostly  up  narrow 
valleys  that  would  pile  twenty  feet  deep,  and  I 
reckon,  though  you  don't  care  overmuch  yourself 
what  gener'ly  happens,  you  don't  want  to  give  the 
buckskin  a  raw  deal  by  gettin'  him  into  any  fool 
finish.  He  knows;  he  wants  to  get  to  a  nice  little 
silk-lined  sleepin'  box  afore  this  snoozer  hits  the 
mountains.  Good-bye,  Bulldog,  and  ride  like  hell 
— the  buckskin  won't  mind ;  let  him  run  the  show — he 
knows,  the  clever  little  cuss." 

Carney's  slim  fingers,  though  steel,  were  almost 
welded  together  in  the  heat  of  the  squeeze  they  got 
in  Oregon's  bear-trap  of  a  paw. 

The  trail  here  was  like  a  prairie  road  for  the 
valley  was  flat,  and  the  buckskin  accentuated  his  ap- 
prehensive eagerness  by  whisking  away  at  a  sharp 
canter.  Carney  could  hear,  from  over  his  shoulder, 
the  croaking  bellow  of  Oregon  who  had  noticed  this : 

"He  knows,  Bulldog.  Leave  him  alone.  Let  him 
run  things  hisself  1" 

Though  Carney  had  laughed  at  Oregon's  gloomy 


SEVEN  BLUE  DOVES  235 

forecast,  he  knew  the  old  man  was  weather-wise, 
that  a  lifetime  spent  in  the  hills  and  the  wide  places 
of  earth  had  tutored  him  to  the  varying  moods  of 
the  elements;  that  his  super-sense  was  akin  to  the 
subtle  understanding  of  animals.  So  he  rode  late 
into  the  night,  sometimes  sleeping  in  the  saddle,  as 
the  buckskin,  with  loose  rein,  picked  his  way  up 
hill  and  down  dale  and  along  the  brink  of  gorges 
with  the  surefootedness  of  a  big-horn.  He  camped 
beneath  a  giant  pine  whose  fallen  cones  and  needles 
had  spread  a  luxurious  mattress,  and  whose  balsam, 
all  unstoppered,  floated  in  the  air,  a  perfume  that 
was  like  a  balm  of  life. 

Almost  across  the  trail  Carney  slept  lest  the 
bearer  of  the  loot  might  slip  by  in  the  night. 

He  had  lain  down  with  one  gray  blanket  over  him ; 
he  had  gone  to  sleep  with  a  delicious  sense  of  warmth 
and  cosiness;  he  woke  shivering.  His  eyes  opened 
to  a  gray  light,  a  faint  gray,  the  steeliness  that  fil- 
tered down  into  the  gloomed  valley  from  a  paling 
sky.  A  day  was  being  born;  the  night  was  dying. 

An  appalling  hush  was  in  the  air;  the  valley  was 
as  devoid  of  sound  as  though  the  very  trees  had  died 
in  the  night;  as  if  the  air  itself  had  been  sucked  out 
from  between  the  hills,  leaving  a  void. 

The  buckskin  was  up  and  picking  at  the  tender 
shoots  of  a  young  birch.  It  had  been  a  half-whin- 
nying snort  from  the  horse  that  had  wakened  Car- 
ney, for  now  he  repeated  it,  and  threw  his  head  up, 
the  lop  ears  cocked  as  though  he  listened  for  some 
break  in  the  horrible  stillness,  watched  for  something 


BULLDOG  CARNEY 

that  was  creeping  stealthily  over  the  mountains  from 
the  west. 

Carney  wet  the  palm  of  his  hand  and  held  it  up. 
It  chilled  as  though  it  had  been  dipped  in  evaporating 
spirits.  Looking  at  the  buckskin  Oregon's  croak 
came  back: 

"He  knows :  ride  like  hell,  Bulldog !" 

Carney  rose,  and  poured  a  little  feed  of  oats 
from  his  bag  on  a  corner  of  his  blanket  for  the 
horse.  He  built  a  fire  and  brewed  in  a  copper  pot 
his  tea.  Once  the  shaft  of  smoke  that  spiraled  lazily 
upward  flickered  and  swished  flat  like  a  streaming 
whisp  of  hair;  and  above,  high  up  in  the  giant  pine 
harp,  a  minor  string  wailed  a  thin  tremulous  note. 
The  gray  of  the  morning  that  had  been  growing 
bright  now  gloomed  again  as  though  night  had  fled 
backwards  before  the  thing  that  was  in  the  mountains 
to  the  west. 

The  buckskin  shivered;  the  hairs  of  his  coat  stood 
on  end  like  fur  in  a  bitter  cold  day;  he  snapped  at 
the  oats  as  though  he  bit  at  the  neck  of  a  stallion; 
he  crushed  them  in  his  strong  jaws  as  though  he 
were  famished,  or  ate  to  save  them  from  a  thief. 

In  five  minutes  the  strings  of  the  giant  harp  above 
Carney's  head  were  playing  a  dirge;  the  smoke  of 
his  fire  swirled,  and  the  blaze  darted  here  and  there 
angrily,  like  the  tongue  of  a  serpent.  From  far 
across  the  valley,  from  somewhere  in  the  rocky 
caverns  of  the  mighty  hills,  came  the  heavy  moans 
of  genii.  It  was  hardly  a  noise,  it  was  a  great  op- 


SEVEN  BLUE  DOVES  237 

pression,  a  manifestation  of  turmoil,  of  the  turmoil 
of  God's  majesty,  His  creation  in  travail. 

Carney  quaffed  the  scalding  tea,  and  raced  with 
the  buckskin  in  the  eating  of  his  food.  He  became 
a  living  thermometer;  his  chilling  blood  told  him 
that  the  temperature  was  going  down,  down,  down. 
The  day  before  he  had  ridden  with  his  coat  hung  to 
the  horn  of  his  saddle ;  now  a  vagrant  thought  flashed 
to  his  buffalo  coat  in  his  room  at  the  Gold  Nugget. 

He  saddled  the  buckskin,  and  the  horse,  at  the 
pinch  of  the  cinch,  turned  from  his  oats  that  were 
only  half  eaten,  and  held  up  his  head  for  the  bit. 

Carney  strapped  his  dunnage  to  the  back  of  the 
saddle,  mounted,  and  the  buckskin,  with  a  snort  of 
relief,  took  the  trail  with  eager  steps.  It  wound 
down  to  the  valley  here  toward  the  west,  and  little 
needles  stabbed  at  the  rider's  eyes  and  cheeks  as 
though  the  air  were  filled  with  indiscernible  diamond 
dust.  It  stung;  it  burned  his  nostrils;  it  seemed  to 
penetrate  the  horse's  lungs,  for  he  gave  a  snorting 
cough. 

And  now  the  full  orchestra  of  the  hills  was  filling 
the  valleys  and  the  canyons  with  an  overture,  as  if 
perched  on  the  snowed  slope  of  Squaw  Mountain 
was  the  hydraulicon  of  Vitruvius,  a  torrent  raging 
its  many  throats  into  unearthly  dirge. 

Carney's  brain  vibrated  with  this  presage  of  the 
something  that  had  thrilled  his  horse.  In  his  ears 
the  wailing,  sighing,  reverberating  music  seemed  to 
carry  as  refrain  the  words  of  Oregon:  "Ride  like 
hell,  Carney  1  Ride  like  hell  I" 


€38  BULLDOG  CARNEY 

And,  as  if  the  command  were  within  the  buck- 
skin's knowing,  he  raced  where  the  path  was  good; 
and  where  it  was  bad  he  scrambled  over  the  stones 
and  shelving  rocks  and  projecting  roots  with  cat- 
like haste. 

In  Carney's  mind  was  the  cave,  the  worked-out 
mine  tunnel  that  drove  into  the  mountain  side;  the 
cave  that  Jack  the  Wolf  had  homed  in  when  he 
murdered  the  men  on  the  trail;  it  was  two  hours 
beyond.  If  he  could  make  that  he  and  the  buckskin 
would  be  safe,  for  the  horse  could  enter  it  too. 

In  the  thought  of  saving  his  life  the  buckskin  oc- 
cupied a  dual  place;  that's  what  Oregon  had  said; 
he  had  no  right  to  jeopardize  the  gallant  little  steed 
that  had  saved  him  more  than  once  with  fleet  heel 
and  stout  heart. 

He  patted  the  eager  straining  neck  in  front  of 
him,  and,  though  he  spoke  aloud,  his  voice  was  little 
more  in  that  valley  of  echo  and  reverberation  than 
a  whisper:  "Good  Patsy  boy,  we'll  make  it.  Don't 
fret  yourself  tired,  old  sport;  we'll  make  it — the 
cave." 

The  horse  seemed  to  swing  his  head  reassuringly 
as  though  he,  too,  had  in  his  heart  the  undying  cour- 
age that  nothing  daunted. 

Now  the  invisible  cutting  dust  that  had  scorched 
Carney's  face  had  taken  visible  form;  it  was  like 
fierce-driven  flour.  Across  the  valley  the  towering 
hills  were  blurred  shapes.  Carney's  eyelashes  were 
frozen  ridges  above  his  eyes;  his  breath  floated  away 


239 

in  little  clouds  of  ice ;  the  buckskin  coat  of  the  horse 
had  turned  to  gray. 

Sometimes  at  the  turn  of  a  cliff  was  a  false  lull 
as  if  the  storm  had  been  stayed;  and  then  in  twenty 
yards  the  doors  of  the  frozen  north  swung  again 
and  icy  fingers  of  death  gripped  man  and  beast. 

And  all  the  time  the  white  prisms  were  growing 
larger;  closer  objects  were  being  blotted  out;  the 
prison  walls  of  ice  were  coming  closer;  it  was  more 
difficult  to  breathe ;  his  life  blood  was  growing  slug- 
gish; a  chill  was  suggesting  indifference — why  fight? 

The  horse's  feet  were  muffled  by  the  ghastly  white 
rug,  the  blizzard  was  spreading  over  the  earth  that 
the  day  before  had  been  a  cloth  of  gold;  it  was  like 
a  winding  sheet. 

Carney  could  feel  the  brave  little  beast  falter  and 
lurch  as  the  merciless  snow  clutched  at  his  legs  where 
it  had  swirled  into  billows. 

To  the  man  direction  was  lost — it  was  like  being 
above  the  clouds;  but  the  buckskin  held  on  his  way 
straight  and  true ;  fighting,  fighting,  making  the  glori- 
ous fight  that  is  without  fear.  To  stop,  to  falter, 
meant  death;  the  buckskin  knew  it;  but  he  was  tir- 
ing. 

Carney  unslung  his  picket  line,  put  the  loop  around 
his  chest  below  his  arms,  fastened  it  to  the  saddle 
horn,  leaving  a  play  of  eight  feet,  and  slipping  to 
the  ground,  clutched  the  horse's  tail,  and  patted 
him  on  the  rump.  The  buckskin  knew;  he  had 
checked  for  five  seconds;  now  he  went  on  again, 
the  weight  off  his  back  being  a  relief. 


240  BULLDOG  CARNEY 

The  change  was  good.  Carney  had  felt  the  chill 
of  death  creeping  over  him  in  the  saddle ;  the  deadly 
chill,  the  palpitating  of  the  chest  that  preluded  a  false 
warmth  that  meant  the  end,  the  sleep  of  death.  Now 
the  exertion  wined  his  blood;  it  brought  the  battling 
back. 

Time,  too,  like  direction,  was  a  haze  in  the  man's 
mind.  Two  hours  away  the  cave  had  been,  and 
surely  they  had  struggled  on  hour  after  hour.  It 
scarce  mattered;  to  draw  forth  his  watch  and  look 
was  a  waste  of  energy,  the  vital  energy  that  weighed 
against  his  death;  an  ounce  of  it  wasted  was  folly; 
just  on  through  the  enveloping  curtain  of  that  white 
wall. 

Carney  had  meant  to  remount  the  horse  when  he 
was  warmer,  when  he  himself  was  tiring;  but  it 
would  be  murder,  murder  of  the  little  hero  that  had 
fought  his  battles  ever  since  they  had  been  together. 
The  buckskin's  flanks  were  pumping  spasmodically, 
like  the  sides  of  a  bellows;  his  withers  drooped;  his 
head  was  low  hung;  he  looked  lean  and  small — 
scarce  mightier  than  a  jack  rabbit,  knee  deep  in  the 
shifting  sea  of  snow. 

But  the  cave  must  be  near.  Carney  found  himself 
repeating  these  words :  "The  cave  is  near,  the  cave 
is  near,  Patsy;  on,  boy — the  cave  is  near."  His 
mind  dwelt  on  the  wood  that  he  had  left  in  the  cave 
when  he  took  Jack  the  Wolf  to  Bucking  Horse; 
of  how  cosy  it  would  be  with  a  bright  fire  going,  and 
the  baffled  blizzard  howling  without.  Yes,  he  would 
make  it.  Was  his  life,  so  full  of  the  wild  adventures 


SEVEN  BLUE  DOVES  241 

that  he  had  always  won  out  on,  to  be  blotted  by 
just  a  snowstorm,  just  cold?" 

He  took  a  lofty  stand  against  this.  He  was  pos- 
sessed of  a  feeling  that  it  was  a  combat  between 
the  crude  elements  and  his  vital  force  of  mental 
stamina.  If  he  kept  up  his  courage  he  would  win 
out,  as  he  always  had.  It  was  just  Excelsior  and 
Success,  just 

There  was  a  swirl  of  oblivion;  he  had  flown 
through  space  and  collided  with  another  world;  there 
had  been  some  sort  of  a  gross  shock;  he  was  alone, 
floating  through  space,  and  passing  through  snow- 
laden  clouds.  There  was  a  restful  exhilaration,  such 
as  he  had  felt  once  when  passing  under  an  anesthetic 
— Nirvana. 

Then  the  cold  snout  of  some  abnormal  creature 
in  these  regions  of  the  beyond  pressed  against  his 
face.  Gradually,  as  though  waking  from  a  dream — 
it  was  the  muzzle  of  the  buckskin  nosing  him  back  to 
consciousness.  He  struggled  painfully  to  his  feet. 
How  heavy  his  legs  were;  at  the  bottom  of  them 
were  leaden-soled  diver's  boots.  His  brain,  not 
more  than  half  clearing  at  that,  he  realized  that  he 
and  the  buckskin  had  slid  from  a  treacherous  shelf 
of  rock,  and  fallen  a  dozen  feet;  the  snow,  unwit- 
tingly kind,  catching  them  in  a  lap  of  feathery  soft- 
ness. But  for  the  gallant  horse  he  would  have  lain 
there,  never  to  rise  again  of  his  own  volition. 

They  scrambled  back  to  the  trail,  he  and  the 
little  horse,  and  they  were  going  forward.  Oregon's 


242  BULLDOG  CARNEY 

command  was  working  out — "Let  the  buckskin 
have  his  own  way." 

If  they  had  been  out  on  the  prairie  undoubtedly 
they  would  have  gone  around  in  a  circle — in  fact, 
Carney  once  had  done  so — and  the  cold  would  have 
been  more  intense,  the  sweep  of  the  wind  more  life- 
sapping;  but  here  in  the  valleys  in  places  the  snow 
piled  deeper;  it  was  like  surf  rolling  up  in  billows; 
it  took  the  life  force  out  of  man  and  horse. 

Carney  was  so  wearied  by  the  sustained  struggle 
that  was  like  a  man  battling  the  waves,  half  the 
time  beneath  the  waters,  that  his  flagged  senses  be- 
came atrophied,  numbed,  scarce  tabulating  anything 
but  the  fact  that  they  still  held  on  toward  the  cave. 

Then  he  heard  a  bell.  Curious  that.  Was  it  all 
a  dream — or  was  this  the  real  thing:  that  he  was 
in  a  merry  party,  a  sleighing  party — that  they  were 
going  to  a  ball  in  a  stone  palace?  He  could  hear 
a  sleigh  bell. 

Then  he  was  nice  and  warm.  He  stretched  him- 
self lazily.  It  was  a  dream — he  was  waking. 

When  he  opened  his  eyes  he  saw  a  fire,  and  the 
flickering  firelight  played  on  stone  walls.  Beside 
the  fire  was  sitting  a  man;  behind  him  something 
stamped  on  the  stone  floor. 

He  turned  his  head  and  saw  the  buckskin  asleep 
on  his  feet  with  low-hung  head. 

"How  d'you  feel,  Stranger?"  the  man  at  the  fire 
asked,  rising  up,  and  coming  to  his  side. 

Carney  stared;  he  was  supposed  to  be  back  there 
fighting  a  blizzard.  And  now,  remembrance,  cours- 


SEVEN  BLUE  DOVES  243 

ing  with  langourous  speed  through  his  mind,  he  was 
in  the  cave  where  he  had  held  Jack  the  Wolf  a 
prisoner. 

He  sat  up  and  pondered  this  with  groggy  slow- 
ness. 

"Some  horse,  that,  Stranger."  The  man's  voice 
that  had  sounded  thinly  sinister  had  a  humanized 
tone  as  he  said  this. 

Carney's  tongue  was  dry,  puckered  from  the  low- 
ered vitality.  He  tried  to  answer,  and  the  man, 
noting  this,  said :  "Take  your  time,  Mister.  You're 
makin'  the  grade  all  right,  all  right.  I  knowed  you 
was  just  asleep.  Try  this  dope." 

He  poured  some  hot  tea  into  a  tin  cup.  It  toniced 
the  tired  Carney;  it  was  like  oil  on  the  dry  bearings 
of  a  delicate  machine. 

"Some  April  shower,"  the  man  said,  piling  wood 
on  the  fire.  "I  heerd  a  horse  neigh — it  was  kind 
of  a  squeal,  and  my  bronch  havin'  drifted  out  to 
sea  ahead  of  this  damn  gale,  I  thinks  he's  come  back. 
I  heerd  his  bell,  and  I  makes  a  fight  with  ol'  white 
whiskers — 'twan't  more'n  'bout  ten  yards  at  that 
— and  there's  that  danged  rat  of  yours,  and  he  won't 
come  in  to  the  warm  'cause  you'd  got  pinned  agin 
a  boulder  and  snow;  he  seemed  to  know  that  if  he 
pulled  too  hard  he'd  break  your  danged  neck.  Then 
we  got  you  in — that's  all.  Some  horse  1" 

This  and  the  warmth  and  the  tonic  tea  brought 
Carney  up  to  date.  He  held  out  his  hand. 

•  *        1 

But  a  curious  metamorphosis  in  the  man  startled 
Carney.  He  turned  surlily  to  shake  up  the  fire, 


244  BULLDOG  CARNEY 

throwing  over  his  shoulder :  "I  ain't  done  nothin' ; 
you've  got  to  thank  that  little  jack  rabbit  fer  pullin' 
you  through.  I  went  out  after  my  own  bronch." 

"But  ain't  I  all  right,  Stranger?"  Carney  asked 
gently,  for  he  had  met  many  men  in  the  waste  places 
with  just  this  curious  antipathy  to  an  unknown. 
Oregon  was  like  that.  Men  living  in  the  wide  outside 
became  like  outcast  buffalo  bulls,  in  their  supersen- 
sitiveness — every  man  was  an  enemy  till  he  proved 
himself. 

The  man  straightened  up,  and  his  eyes  that  were 
set  too  close  together  each  side  of  the  fin-like  nose 
rested  on  Carney  in  a  squinting  look  of  distrust. 

"I  ain't  never  knowed  but  one  man  was  all  right, 
and  the  Mounted  Police  hounded  him  till  he  give 
up." 

The  cave  man  turned  the  stem  of  the  pipe  he  had 
been  smoking  toward  the  horse.  "That  buckskin 
with  the  mule  ears  belongs  to  Bulldog  Carney.  Are 
you  him,  or  are  you  a  hawse  thief?" 

"How  do  you  know  the  horse  ?" 

"I  got  reason  a-plenty  to  know  him.  He  cleaned 
me  out  in  Walla  Walla  when  he  beat  Clatawa ;  and 
I  guess  you're  the  racin'  shark  that  cold-decked  us 
boys  with  this  ringer." 

Now  Bulldog  knew  why  the  aversion. 

"I'm  Carney,"  he  admitted;  "but  it  was  the  gam- 
blers put  up  the  job;  I  just  beat  them  out." 

"Where  d'you  come  from  now?"  the  cave  man 
asked. 

"Bailey's  Ferry,"  Carney  answered  in  oblique  pre- 


SEVEN  BLUE  DOVES  24,5 

caution.  He  noticed  that  the  other  hung  with  pe- 
culiar intensity  on  his  answer. 

"How  long  was  you  fightin'  that  blizzard?" 

"Since  daylight — when  I  broke  camp."  Carney 
looked  at  his  watch;  it  was  three  o'clock.  "How 
long  have  I  been  here?" 

"A  couple  of  hours.  Was  you  runnin'  booze  or 
hop,  Bulldog?" 

Carney  started.  Perhaps  the  cave  man  was  con- 
veying a  covert  threat,  an  intimation  that  he  might 
inform  on  him.  "Don't  let's  talk  shop,"  he  an- 
swered. 

"I  ain't  got  no  sore  spots  on  my  hide,"  the  other 
sneered;  "I'm  an  ord'nary  damn  fool  of  a  gold 
chaser,  and  I've  been  up  in  the  Eagle  Hills  trailin' 
a  ledge  of  auriferous  quartz  that's  buck-jumpin' 
acrost  the  mountains  so  damn  fast  I  never  got  a 
chanct  to  rope  it.  I'd  a-stuck  her  out  if  the  chuck 
hadn't  petered.  When  I'd  just  got  enough  sow- 
belly to  see  me  to  the  outside  I  pulled  my  freight. 
That's  me,  Goldbug  Dave." 

The  other's  statement  flashed  into  Carney's  mind 
a  sudden  disturbing  thought — food!  He,  himself, 
had  about  one  day's  supply — had  he  it?  He  turned 
to  his  dunnage  and  saddle  that  lay  where  they  had 
been  tossed  by  the  cave  man  when  he  had  stripped 
them  from  the  horse.  His  bacon  and  bannock  were 
gone  I 

Wheeling,  he  asked,  "Did  you  see  anything  of  my 
grub?" 

"All  that  was  on  your  bronch  is  there,  Bulldog. 


246  BULLDOG  CARNEY 

I  don't  rob  no  man's  cache.  And  all  I  got's  here," 
he  held  up  in  one  hand  a  slab  of  bacon,  about  four 
pounds  in  weight,  and  in  the  other  a  drill  bag,  in 
its  bottom  a  round  bulge  of  flour  the  size  of  a  cocoa- 
nut.  "That's  got  to  get  me  to  Bailey's  Ferry,"  he 
added  as  he  dropped  them  back  at  the  head  of  his 
blankets. 

A  subconscious  presentment  of  trouble  caused 
Carney,  through  force  of  habit,  to  caress  the  place 
where  his  gun  should  have  been — the  pigskin  pocket 
was  empty. 

The  other  man  bared  his  teeth;  it  was  like  the 
quiver  of  a  wolf's  lip.  "Your  Gatt  must  Ve  kicked 
out  back  there  in  the  snow;  I  see  it  was  gone." 

Bulldog  knew  this  was  a  lie;  he  knew  the  cave 
man  had  taken  his  gun.  He  ran  his  eye  over  his 
host's  physical  exhibit — when  the  time  came  he  would 
get  his  gun  back  or  appropriate  the  one  so  in  evi- 
dence in  the  other's  belt.  He  went  back  to  his  dun« 
nage,  a  thought  of  the  buckskin  in  his  mind;  to  his 
joy  he  found  the  horse's  oats  safe  in  the  bag.  This 
fastened  the  idea  he  had  that  the  other  had  stolen 
his  food,  for  his  bacon  and  bannock  had  been  in  the 
same  bag,  they  could  hardly  have  worked  out  and 
the  oats  remain. 

He  sat  down  again,  and  mentally  arranged  the 
situation.  He  could  hear  outside  the  blizzard  still 
raging;  he  could  see  in  the  opening  the  swirling  snow 
that  indeed  had  gradually  raised  a  barrier,  a  white 
gate  to  their  chamber.  This  kept  the  intense  cold 
out,  a  cold  that  was  at  least  fifty  below  zero.  The 


SEVEN  BLUE  DOVES  ^7 

snow  would  lie  in  the  valleys  through  which  the  trail 
wound  twenty  feet  deep  in  places.  They  had  no 
snowshoes;  he  had  no  food;  and  Goldbug  Dave's 
store  was  only  sufficient  for  a  week  with  two  men  eat- 
ing it. 

He  knew  that  there  was  something  in  Dave's  mind ; 
either  a  bargain,  or  a  fight  for  the  food.  They  might 
be  imprisoned  for  a  month;  a  chinook  wind  might 
come  up  the  next  day,  or  the  day  following  that 
would  melt  the  snow  with  its  soft  warm  kiss  like 
rain  washes  a  street. 

Carney  was  not  hungry;  the  strain  had  left  him 
fagged — he  was  hungry  only  for  rest;  and  the  buck- 
skin, he  knew,  felt  the  same  desire. 

He  lay  down,  and  had  slept  two  hours  when  he 
was  wakened  by  the  sweet  perfume  of  frying  pork. 

Casually  he  noticed  that  but  one  slice  of  bacon  lay 
in  the  pan.  He  watched  the  cook  turn  it  over  and 
over  with  the  point  of  his  hunting  knife,  cooking  it 
slowly,  economically,  hoarding  every  drop  of  its 
vital  fat.  When  the  bacon  was  cooked  the  chef 
lifted  it  out  on  the  point  of  his  knife  and  stirred  some 
flour  into  the  gravy,  adding  water,  preparing  that 
well-known  delicacy  of  the  trail  known  as  slum- 
gullion. 

Dave  withdrew  the  pan  and  let  it  rest  on  the  stone 
floor  just  beside  the  fire;  then  he  looked  across  at 
Carney,  and,  catching  the  gray  of  his  opened  eyes, 
worded  the  foreboding  thought  that  had  been  in 
Carney's  mind  before  he  fell  asleep. 

"I  ain't  got  no  call  to-  give  you  a  show-down  on 


248  BULLDOG  CARNEY 

this,  Bulldog,  but  I'm  goin'  to.  When  I  snaked  you 
in  here  that  didn't  cost  me  nothin' ;  anyways  you  was 
down  and  out  for  the  count.  Now  you've  come  back 
it  ain't  up  to  me  to  throw  my  chanct  away  by  de- 
clarin'  you  in  on  this  grub;  I'd  be  a  damn  fool  to 
do  it — I'd  be  just  playin'  agin  myself." 

Then  he  spat  in  the  fire  and  held  the  pan  over  its 
blaze  to  warm  the  slimy  mixture. 

Carney  remained  silent,  and  his  host,  as  if  mak- 
ing out  a  case  for  himself  continued:  "We  may 
be  bottled  up  here  for  a  week,  or  a  month.  Two  men 
ain't  got  no  chanct  on  that  grub-pile,  no  chanct." 

"Why  don't  you  eat  it  then?"  and  Carney  sat  up. 

"I  could,  'cause  it's  mine;  but  I  got  a  proposition 
to  make — you  can  take  it  or  leave  it." 

"Spit  it  out." 

"It's  just  this" — the  fox  eyes  shifted  uneasily  to 
the  little  buckskin,  and  then  back  to  Carney's  face — 
"I'll  share  this  grub  if,  when  it's  gone,  you  cut  in 
with  the  bronch." 

Carney  shivered  at  this,  inwardly;  facially  he 
didn't  twitch  an  eye ;  his  features  were  as  immobile 
as  though  he  had  just  filled  a  royal  flush.  The  propo- 
sition sounded  as  cold-blooded  as  if  the  other  man 
had  asked  him  to  slit  the  throat  of  a  brother  for  a 
cannibalistic  orgy. 

"It's  only  ord'nary  hawse  sense,"  Dave  added 
when  Carney  did  not  speak;  "kept  in  the  snow  that 
meat'd  last  us  a  month.  Feelin's  don't  count  when 
a  man's  playin'  fer  his  life,  and  that's  what  we're 
doin'." 


SEVEN  BLUE  DOVES  249 

"I  don't  dispute  the  sense  of  your  proposition, 
my  kind  friend,"  Carney  said  in  a  well-mastered 
voice:  "I'm  not  hungry  just  now,  and  I'll  think  it 
over.  I've  got  a  sneaking  regard  for  the  little  buck- 
skin, but,  of  course,  if  I  don't  get  out  he'd  starve  to 
death  anyway." 

"Take  your  time,"  and  the  owner  of  the  pan 
pulled  it  between  his  legs,  ate  the  slice  of  bacon,  and 
with  a  tin  spoon  lapped  up  the  glutinous  mess. 

Carney  watched  this  performance,  smothering  the 
anger  and  hunger  that  were  now  battling  in  him.  It 
was  a  one-sided  argument;  the  other  man  had  a  gun, 
and  Carney  knew  that  he  would  use  it  the  minute 
his  store  of  provisions  were  gone — perhaps  before 
that.  And  Carney  was  determined  to  make  the  dis- 
cussion more  equitable.  Once  he  could  put  a  hand 
on  the  dictator,  the  lop-sided  argument  would  true 
itself  up.  As  to  killing  the  little  buckskin  that  had 
saved  his  life — bah!  the  very  idea  of  it  made  his 
fingers  twitch  for  a  grasp  of  the  other's  windpipe. 

For  a  long  time  Carney  sat  moodily  turning  over 
in  his  mind  something;  and  the  other  man,  having 
lighted  his  pipe,  sat  back  against  the  wall  of  the 
cave  smoking. 

At  last  Carney  spoke.  "There's  a  way  out  of 
this." 

"Yes,  if  a  chinook  blows  up  Kettlebelly  Valley- 
there  ain't  no  other  way.     The  manna  days  is  all 
gone  by." 

"There's  another  way.  This  is  an  old  worked- 
out  mine  we're  in,  the  Lost  Ledge  Mine." 


250  BULLDOG  CARNEY 

"She's  worked  out,  right  enough.  There  never 
was  nothin'  but  a  few  stringers  of  gold — they  soon 
petered  out." 

"When  the  men  who  were  working  this  mine 
pulled  out  they  left  a  lot  of  heavy  truck  behind," 
Carney  continued.  "There's  a  forge,  coal,  tools, 
and,  what  I'm  thinking  of,  half  a  dozen  sets  of  horse 
snowshoes  back  there.  I  could  put  a  set  of  those 
snowshoes  on  the  buckskin  and  make  Bucking  Horse 
in  three  or  four  days.  He  wore  them  down  in  the 
Cceur  d'Alene." 

"If  you  had  the  grub,"  Dave  snapped;  "where're 
you  goin'  to  get  that?" 

"Half  of  what  you've  got  would  keep  me  up  that 
long  on  short  rations." 

"And  what  about  me — where  do  I  come  in  on 
givin'  you  half  my  grub?" 

"The  other  half  would  keep  you  alive  till  I  could 
bring  a  rescue  party  on  snowshoes  and  dog-train." 

Dave  sucked  at  his  pipe,  pondering  this  proposi- 
tion in  silence;  then  he  said,  as  if  having  made  up 
his  mind  to  do  a  generous  act:  "I'll  cut  the  cards 
with  you — your  bronch  agin  half  my  chuck.  If  you 
win  you  can  try  this  fool  trick,  if  I  win  the  bronch 
is  mine  to  do  the  same  thing,  or  use  him  to  keep  us 
both  alive  till  a  chinook  blows  up." 

From  an  inside  pocket  of  his  coat  he  brought  forth 
a  pack  of  cards,  and  slid  them  apart,  fan-shaped,  on 
the  corner  of  his  blanket. 

Carney  was  almost  startled  into  a  betrayal.  On 
the  backs  of  the  cards  winged  seven  blue  doves.  It 


SEVEN  BLUE  DOVES  251 

was  the  pack  that  had  been  stolen  from  Seth  Long's 
pocket,  and  the  man  that  sat  behind  them  was  the 
murderer  of  Seth  Long,  Carney  knew.  Yes.  it  was 
the  same  pack;  there  was  the  same  slight  variation 
of  the  wings.  In  a  second  Carney  had  mastered  him- 
self. 

"I  guess  it's  fair,"  he  said  hesitatingly;  "let  me 
think  it  over — I'm  fond  of  that  little  cuss,  but  I 
guess  a  man's  life  comes  first." 

He  sat  looking  into  the  fire  thinking,  and  if  Dave 
had  been  a  mind  reader  the  gun  in  his  belt  would 
have  covered  Carney  for  the  latter  was  thinking, 
"There  are  three  aces  in  that  pack  and  the  fourth 
is  in  my  pocket." 

Then  he  spoke,  shifting  closer  to  the  blanket  on 
which  the  other  sat : 

'Til  cut!" 

"Draw  a  card,  then,"  Dave  commanded,  touching 
the  strung-out  pack. 

Carney  could  see  the  acute-angled  wings  of  the 
middle  dove  on  a  card;  he  turned  it  up — it  was  the 
ace  of  diamonds. 

"Some  draw!"  Dave  declared.  Then  he  deftly 
flipped  over  the  ace  of  spades,  adding:  "Horse  and 
horse,  Bulldog;  draw  agin." 

"Shuffle  and  spread-eagle  them  again,  for  luck," 
Carney  suggested. 

Dave  gathered  the  cards,  gave  them  a  riffle,  and 
swept  them  along  the  blanket  in  a  tenuous  stream. 

Carney  edged  closer  to  the  ribbon  of  blue-doved 
cards;  and  the  owner  of  them,  a  sneer  on  his  lips, 


252  BULLDOG  CARNEY 

craned  his  head  and  shoulders  forward  in  a  gam- 
bler's eagerness. 

Intensity,  too,  seemed  to  claim  Bulldog;  he  rested 
his  elbows  on  his  knees  and  scanned  the  cards  as  if 
he  hesitated  over  the  risk.  There,  a  little  to  the 
right,  he  discovered  the  third  ace,  the  only  one  in 
the  pack.  If  he  turned  that  Dave  could  not  tie  him 
again.  He  knew  that  the  minute  he  turned  over 
that  card  the  cave-man  would  know  that  he  had 
been  double-crossed  in  his  sure  thing;  his  gun  would 
be  thrust  into  Carney's  face ;  perhaps — once  a  killer 
always  a  killer — he  would  not  hesitate  but  would 
kill. 

So  Carney  let  his  right  hand  hover  carelessly  a 
little  beyond  the  ace,  while  his  left  crept  closer  to 
Dave's  right  wrist. 

"Why  don't  you  draw  your  card?"  Dave  snarled. 
"What're  you " 

Carney's  right  hand  flopped  over  the  ace  of  clubs, 
and  in  the  same  split  second  his  left  closed  like  the 
jaws  of  a  vise  on  Dave's  wrist. 

"Turn  over  a  card  with  your  left  hand,  quick!" 
he  commanded. 

Dave,  as  if  in  the  act  of  obeying,  reached  for  his 
gun  with  the  left  hand,  but  a  twist  of  the  imprisoned 
wrist,  almost  tearing  his  arm  from  the  shoulder 
socket,  turned  him  on  his  back,  and  his  gun  was 
whisked  from  its  pigskin  pocket  by  Carney. 

Then  Bulldog  released  the  wrist  and  commanded: 
"Draw  that  card,  quick,  or  I'll  plug  you ;  then  we'll 
talk!" 


SEVEN  BLUE  DOVES  253 

Sullenly  the  other  turned  the  card:  as  if  in  mock- 
ery it  was  a  "jack." 

"You  lose,"  Carney  declared.  "Now  sit  back 
there  against  the  wall." 

Cursing  Bulldog  for  a  cold-deck  sharp,  the  other 
sullenly  obeyed. 

Then  Carney  turned  up  the  end  of  Dave's  blanket 
and  found,  as  he  knew  he  should,  Hadley's  plethoric 
wallet,  and  his  own  six-gun.  This  proceeding  had 
hushed  the  other  man's  profane  denunciation;  his 
eyes  held  a  foreboding  look. 

Carney  stepped  back  to  the  fire,  saying: 

"You're  Tacoma  Jack — you're  the  man  that  staked 
Seth  Long  to  this  marked  pack."  He  drew  from  his 
pocket  the  ace  of  hearts  and  held  it  up  to  Tacoma's 
astonished  view.  "Here's  the  missing  ace." 

He  put  it  back  in  his  pocket  and  resumed:  "That 
was  to  rob  Hadley,  when  you  found  he  was  leaving 
the  money  in  Seth's  strong  box  while  he  went  with 
you  up  into  the  hills  to  look  at  a  mine  that  didn't 
exist.  If  he  had  taken  the  money  with  him  he  would 
have  been  killed  instead  of  Seth.  When  the  game 
was  over  that  night,  Seth  signaled  you  with  a  lamp 
in  the  window,  and  when  you  went  in  to  settle  with 
him  the  sight  of  the  money  was  too  much,  and  you 
plugged  him." 

"It's  a  damn  lie !  I  was  up  in  the  mountains  and 
don't  know  nothin'  about  it." 

"You  were  standing  at  that  back  window  of  the 
police  shack  when  Seth  and  Hadley  were  playing 
alone,  and  when  you  shot  Seth  you  were  smooth 


254  BULLDOG  CARNEY 

enough  not  to  open  the  front  door  for  fear  some 
one  might  be  coming  and  see  you,  but  jumped  from 
the  back  window." 

Carney  took  from  his  pocket  the  paper  templet 
he  had  made  of  the  tracks  in  the  mud. 

"I  see  from  the  soles  of  your  gum-shoe  packs 
that  this  gets  you."  He  held  it  up. 

"It's  all  a  damned  pack  of  lies,  Bulldog;  you've 
been  chewin'  your  own  hop.  Who's  goin'  to  swaller 
that  guff?" 

Carney  had  expected  this.  He  knew  Tacoma  was 
of  the  determined  one-idea  type;  lacking  absolute 
eye-witness  evidence  he  would  deny  complicity  even 
with  a  rope  around  his  neck.  He  realized  that  with 
the  valley  lying  twenty  feet  deep  in  snow  he  couldn't 
take  Tacoma  to  Bucking  Horse;  in  fact  with  him 
that  was  not  the  real  desired  point.  If  Carney  had 
been  a  Mounted  Policeman  the  honor  of  the  force 
would  have  demanded  that  he  give  up  his  life  trying 
to  land  his  prisoner;  but  he  was  a  private  individual, 
trying  to  keep  clean  the  name  of  a  woman  he  had  a 
high  regard  for — Jeanette  Holt.  He  wanted  a  writ- 
ten confession  from  this  man.  Bringing  in  the  stolen 
money  and  the  cards  wouldn't  be  enough ;  it  might  be 
said  that  he,  himself,  had  taken  these  two  things 
and  returned  them. 

Even  the  punishment  of  Tacoma  didn't  interest 
him  vitally.  Two  thieves  had  combined  to  rob  a 
stranger,  and  over  a  division  of  the  spoil  one  had 
been  killed — it  was  not,  vitally,  Carney's  funeral. 


SEVEN  BLUE  DOVES  355 

Now  to  gain  the  confession  he  stretched  a  point, 
saying: 

"They  believe  Seth  Long.    He  says  you  shot  him." 

Startled  out  of  his  cunning,  Tacoma  blundered: 
"That's  a  damn  lie — Seth's  as  dead's  a  herrin' !" 

"How  do  you  know,  Tacoma?"  and  Carney 
smiled. 

The  other,  stunned  by  his  foolish  break,  spluttered 
sullenly,  "You  said  so  yourself." 

"Seth's  dead  now,  Tacoma,  but  you  were  in  too 
much  of  a  hurry  to  make  your  get-away.  Dr.  An- 
derson and  I  found  him  alive,  and  he  said  that  you, 
Tacoma  Jack,  shot  him.  That's  why  I  pulled  out 
on  this  trail." 

The  two  men  sat  in  silence  for  a  little.  Tacoma 
knew  that  Carney  was  driving  at  something;  he  knew 
that  Carney  could  not  take  him  to  Bucking  Horse 
with  the  trail  as  it  was;  the  buckskin  would  have  all 
he  could  do  to  carry  one  man,  and  without  huge 
moose-hunting  snowshoes  no  man  could  make  half  a 
mile  of  that  trail. 

Carney  broke  the  silence :  "You  made  a  one-sided 
proposition,  Tacoma,  when  you  had  the  drop  on 
me;  now  I'm  going  to  deal.  I'd  take  you  in  if  I 
didn't  value  the  little  buckskin  more  than  your  car- 
cass ;  I  don't  give  a  damn  whether  you're  hanged  or 
die  here.  I'm  going  to  cut  from  that  slab  of  bacon 
six  slices.  That'll  keep  you  alive  for  six  days  with 
a  little  flour  I'll  leave  you.  I  can  make  Bucking 
Horse  in  three  days  at  most  with  snowshoes  on  the 
buckskin;  then  I'll  come  back  for  you  with  a  dog- 


256  BULLDOG  CARNEY 

train  and  a  couple  of  men  on  snowshoes.  You've 
got  a  gambling  chance;  it's  like  filling  a  bob-tailed 
flush — but  I'm  going  to  let  you  draw.  If  the  chinook 
comes  up  the  valley  kissing  this  snow  before  I  get 
back  you'll  get  away;  I'd  give  even  a  wolf  a  fight- 
ing chance.  But  I've  got  to  clear  a  good  woman's 
name;  get  that,  Tacoma!"  and  Carney  tapped  the 
cards  with  a  forefinger  in  emphasis.  "You've  got  to 
sign  a  confession  here  in  my  noteboook  that  you 
killed  Seth  Long." 

"I'll  see  you  in  hell  first!  It's  a  damn  trap — I 
didn't  kill  him!" 

"As  you  like.  Then  you  lose  your  bet  on  the 
chinook  right  now;  for  I  take  the  money,  your  gun, 
your  boots,  and  all  the  grub." 

As  Carney  with  slow  deliberation  stated  the  terms 
Tacoma's  heart  sank  lower  and  lower  as  each  article 
of  life  saving  was  specified. 

"Take  your  choice,  quick!"  Carney  resumed;  "a 
grub  stake  for  you,  and  you  bet  on  the  chinook  if 
you  sign  the  confession ;  if  you  refuse  I  make  a  clean- 
up. You  starve  to  death  here,  or  die  on  the  trail, 
even  if  the  chinook  comes  in  two  or  three  days." 

There  was  an  ominous  silence.  Carney  broke  it, 
saying,  a  sharp  determination  in  his  voice:  "Decide 
quick,  for  I'm  going  to  hobble  you." 

Tacoma  knew  Bulldog's  reputation;  he  knew  he 
was  up  against  it.  If  Carney  took  the  food — and 
he  would — he  had  no  chance.  The  alternative  was 
his  only  hope. 


SEVEN  BLUE  DOVES  257 

"I'll  sign — I  got  to  I"  he  said,  surily;  "you  write 
and  I'll  tell  just  how  it  happened." 

"You  write  it  yourself — I  won't  take  a  chance 
on  you :  you'd  swear  I  forged  your  signature,  but  a 
man  can't  forge  a  whole  letter." 

He  tossed  his  notebook  and  pencil  over  to  the 
other. 

When  Tacoma  tossed  it  back  with  a  snarling  oath, 
Carney,  keeping  one  eye  on  the  other  man,  read  it. 
It  was  a  statement  that  Seth  Long  and  Tacoma  Jack 
had  quarreled  over  the  money;  that  Seth,  being  half 
drunk,  had  pulled  his  gun;  that  Tacoma  had  seized 
Seth's  hand  across  the  table,  and  in  the  struggle  Setk 
had  been  shot  with  his  own  gun. 

Carney  closed  the  notebook  and  put  it  in  his 
pocket,  saying:  "This  may  be  true,  Tacoma,  or  it 
may  not.  Personally  I've  got  what  I  want.  If 
you're  laughing  down  in  your  chest  that  you've  put 
one  over  on  Bulldog  Carney,  forget  it.  To  keep 
you  from  making  any  fool  play  that  might  make  me 
plug  you  I'm  going  to  hobble  you.  When  I  pull 
out  in  the  morning  I'll  turn  you  loose." 

Carney  was  an  artist  at  twisting  a  rope  security 
about  a  man,  and  Tacoma,  placed  in  the  helpless 
condition  of  a  swathed  babe,  Carney  proceeded  to 
cook  himself  a  nice  little  dinner  off  the  latter's  bacon. 
Then  he  rubbed  down  the  buckskin,  melted  some 
snow  for  a  drink  for  the  horse,  gave  him  a  feed  of 
oats,  and  stretched  himself  on  the  opposite  side  of 
the  fire  from  Tacoma,  saying:  "You're  on  your  good 


258  BULLDOG  CARNEY 

behavior,  for  the  minute  you  start  anything  you  lose 
your  bet  on  the  chinook." 

In  the  morning  when  Carney  opened  his  eyes  day- 
light was  streaming  in  through  the  cave  mouth.  He 
blinked  wonderingly;  the  snow  wall  that  had  all  but 
closed  the  entrance  had  sagged  down  like  a  weary 
man  that  had  huddled  to  sleep ;  and  the  air  that  swept 
in  through  the  opening  was  soft  and  balmy,  like  the 
gentle  breeze  of  a  May  day. 

Carney  rose  and  pushed  his  way  through  the  lit- 
tle mound  of  wet,  soggy  snow  and  gazed  down  the 
valley.  The  giant  pines  that  had  drooped  beneath 
the  weight  of  their  white  mantles  were  now  dropping 
to  earth  huge  masses  of  snow;  the  sky  above  was 
blue  and  suffused  with  gold  from  a  climbing  sun. 
Rocks  on  the  hillside  thrust  through  the  white  sheet 
black,  wet,  gnarled  faces,  and  in  the  bottom  of  the 
valley  the  stream  was  gorged  with  snow-water. 

A  hundred  yards  down  the  trail,  where  a  huge 
snow  bank  leaned  against  a  cliff,  the  head  and  neck 
of  a  horse  stood  stiff  and  rigid  out  of  the  white 
mass.  About  the  neck  was  a  leather  strap  from 
which  hung  &  cow-bell.  It  was  Tacoma's  cayuse 
frozen  stiff,  and  the  bell  was  the  bell  that  Carney 
had  heard  as  he  was  slipping  off  into  dreamland 
behind  the  little  buckskin. 

Carney  turned  back  to  where  the  other  man  lay, 
his  furtiie  eyes  peeping  out  from  above  his  blanket 
• — they  M  ere  like  rat  eyes. 

"You  win  your  bet,  Tacoma,"  Carney  said;  "the 
chinook  is  here." 


SEVEN  BLUE  DOVES  059 

Tacoma  had  known;  he  had  smelt  it;  but  he  had 
lain  there,  fear  in  his  heart  that  now,  when  it  was 
possible,  Bulldog  would  take  him  in  to  Bucking 
Horse. 

"The  bargain  stands,  don't  it,  Bulldog?"  he 
asked:  "I  win  on  the  chinook,  don't  I?" 

"You  do,  Tacoma.  Bulldog  Carney's  stock  in 
trade  is  that  he  keeps  his  word." 

"Yes,  I've  heard  you  was  some  man,  Bulldog. 
If  I'd  knew  you'd  pulled  into  Buckin'  Horse  that 
day,  and  was  in  the  game  I  guess  I'd  a-played  my 
hand  dif'rent — p'raps  it's  kind  of  lucky  for  you  I 
didn't  know  all  that  when  I  drug  you  in  out  of  the 
blizzard." 

Carney  waited  a  day  for  the  snow  to  melt  before 
the  hot  chinook.  It  was  just  before  he  left  that 
Tacoma  asked,  like  a  boy  begging  for  a  bite  from 
an  apple :  "Will  you  give  me  back  them  cards,  Bull- 
dog— I'd  be  kind  of  lost  without  them  when  I'm 
alone  if  I  didn't  have  'em  to  riffle." 

"If  I  gave  you  the  cards,  Tacoma,  you'd  never 
make  the  border;  Oregon  is  waiting  down  at  Big- 
horn to  rope  a  man  with  a  pack  of  cards  in  his  pocket 
that's  got  seven  blue  doves  on  the  back;  and  I'm 
not  going  to  cold-deck  you.  After  you  pass  Oregon 
you  take  your  own  chances  of  them  getting  you. 


VI 
EVIL  SPIRITS 

THE  Rockies,  their  towering  white  domes  like 
sheets  of  ivory  inlaid  with  blue  and  green,  the  glacier 
gems,  looked  down  upon  the  Vermillion  Range,  and 
the  Vermillion  looked  down  upon  the  sienna  prairie 
in  which  was  Fort  Calbert,  as  Marathon  might  have 
looked  down  upon  the  sea. 

In  Fort  Calbert  the  Victoria  Hotel,  monument  to 
the  prodigality  of  Remittance  Men,  held  its  gray 
stone  body  in  aloofment  from  the  surrounding  box- 
like  structures  of  the  town. 

In  a  front  room  of  the  Victoria  six  men  sat  around 
an  oak  table  upon  which  was  enthroned  a  five-gal- 
lon keg  with  a  spiggot  in  its  end.  It  was  an  occa- 
sion. 

Liquor  was  prohibited  in  Alberta,  but  the  little 
joker  in  the  law  was  that  a  white  citizen,  in  good 
standing,  might  obtain  a  permit  for  the  importation 
of  five  gallons. 

Jack  Enders  held  the  patent  right  that  made  the 
keg  on  the  table  possible. 

Five  of  the  six  were  Remittance  Men,  the  sixth 
man,  Bulldog  Carney,  in  some  particulars,  was  dif- 
ferent. His  lean,  tanned  face  suggested  attain- 

260 


EVIL  SPIRITS  261 

ment;  the  gray,  restful  eyes  held  power  and  abso- 
lute fearlessness;  they  looked  out  from  under  light 
tawny  eyebrows  like  the  eyes  of  an  eagle. 

Like  Aladdin's  lamp,  the  amber  fluid  that  trickled 
through  the  spiggot  transported,  mentally,  the  Eng- 
lishmen back  to  the  Old  Land.  It  was  always  that 
way  with  them  when  there  was  a  shatterment  of 
the  caste  shell,  an  effacement  of  the  hauteur;  then 
they  damned  the  uncouth  West  as  a  St.  Helena,  and 
blabbed  of  "Old  London." 

A  blond  giant,  FitzHerbert,  was  saying:  "Jack 
Enders,  here,  is  in  no  end  of  a  fazzle;  his  pater 
is  coming  out  uninvited,  and  Jack  has  a  floaty  idea 
that  the  old  gent  will  want  to  see  that  ranch." 

"The  ranch  that  the  Victoria's  worthy  drayman, 
worthy  Enders,  is  supposed  to  have  acquired  with 
the  several  remittances  dear  pater  has  remitted," 
Harden  explained  to  Carney. 

"Oh,  Lord!  you  fellows!"  Enders  moaned. 

His  desolated  groan  was  drowned  by  a  droning 
call  that  floated  in  from  the  roadway;  it  was  a 
weird  drool — the  droning,  hoarse  note  of  a  tug's 
whistle. 

Harden  sprang  to  his  feet  crying:  "St.  Ives!  a 
Thames  'Puffing  Billy'!  Oh,  heavens!  it  makes  me 
homesick." 

Harden  had  named  it;  it  was  the  absolute  warn- 
ing note  of  a  busy,  pudgy  little  Thames  tug. 

Some  of  them  went  over  the  table  in  their  eager- 
ness to  investigate.  Outside  they  stood  aghast 
in  silent  wonderment;  the  hot,  scorching  sun  lay 


262  BULLDOG  CARNEY 

like  a  yellow  flame  across  the  most  archaic,  disrepu- 
table caravan  of  one  that  had  ever  cast  its  discon- 
solate shadow  upon  the  main  street.  A  dejected, 
piebald  cayuse  hung  limply  between  the  shafts  of 
a  Red  River  cart  whose  appearance  suggested  that 
it  had  been  constructed  from  broken  bits  of  the  ark. 
In  the  cart  sat  a  weary  semblance  of  humanity. 

The  man's  face  and  hands  were  encrusted  with  a 
plastic  mixture  of  dust  and  sweat  till  he  looked  like 
a  lamellar  creature — an  armadillo.  He  turned  small 
sullen  eyes,  in  which  was  an  impatient,  querulous 
look,  upon  the  six. 

"It's  a  Trappist  monk  from  the  merry  temple  of 
Chartreuse,"  FitzHerbert  declared  solemnly. 

"Do  it  again,  bargee,"  Harden  begged;  "blow 
your  horn,  O  Gabriel — there's  vintage  inside;  one 
blast  to  warm  the  cockles  of  our  hearts  and  we'll 
set  you  happy." 

The  little  eyes  of  the  charioteer  fastened  upon 
Harden  with  his  cogent  proposition;  he  made  a 
trumpet  of  his  palms,  and  blew  the  tug  boat  blast. 
He  did  it  sadly,  as  though  it  were  an  occupation. 

But  Enders,  with  a  spring,  was  in  the  cart.  He 
picked  up  the  slight  figure  and  tossed  it  to  the  blond 
giant,  who,  catching  the  thing  of  buckskin  and  leather 
chapps,  turned  back  into  the  bar. 

"Sit  you  there,  foghorn,"  FitzHerbert  said,  as  he 
lowered  the  unresisting  guest  to  a  chair. 

The  guest's  eyes  had  grown  large  with  the  con- 
firmatory evidence  of  a  keg;  the  spiggot  fascinated 
him;  it  was  like  a  crystal  to  a  gazer.  He  shoved 


EVIL  SPIRITS  2(J3 

out  a  dry  furred  tongue  and  peeled  from  his  lips 
the  rim  of  lava  that  darkened  their  pale  contours. 
Harden  had  replenished  the  glasses,  and  the  one 
he  passed  to  the  prodigal  was  the  fated  calf — it  was 
full. 

The  guest  raised  the  glass  till  the  sunlight,  slanting 
through  a  window,  threw  life  into  the  amber  fluid, 
and  gazed  lovingly  upon  it. 

"Oh,  my  aunt!"  Harden  bantered;  "the  man  who 
has  come  up  out  of  the  stillness  has  a  toast." 

The  little  man  coughed,  and  from  the  flat  chest 
floated  up  through  thin  tubes  a  voice  that  was  soft 
and  cultured  as  it  wafted  to  their  astonished  ears: 
"Gentlemen,  the  Queen." 

FitzHerbert,  who  had  been  in  the  Guards  before 
something  had  happened,  started.  It  was  the  toast 
of  a  vice-president  of  an  officer's  mess  at  dinner. 

The  six  sprang  to  their  feet,  carried  aloft  their 
glasses,  drank,  and  sat  down  again  in  silence.  Fitz- 
Herbert's  big  voice  had  a  husk  in  it  as  he  asked, 
"Where  is  the  regimental  band,  sir?" 

The  little  man's  shoulders  twitched  as  he  an- 
swered: "The  band  is  outside:  we'll  have  the  band- 
master in  for  a  glass  of  wine,  presently." 

"By  George !"  FitzHerbert  gasped,  for  he  knew 
this  was  a  custom  at  mess;  and  Carney,  who  also 
knew,  gazed  at  the  little  man,  and  his  gray  eyes 
that  were  thought  hard,  had  gone  blue. 

"Now,"  Harden  declared,  "if  somebody  should 
dribble  in  who  could  give  us  twelve  booms  from  4Big 
Ben,'  we'd  have  a  perfect  ecstasy  of  the  blues.'* 


264  BULLDOG  CARNEY 

At  that  two  men  came  in  through  the  front  door, 
their  scarlet  tunics  showing  blood  red  in  the  glint  of 
sunshine  that  played  about  their  shoulders. 

"Oh,  you,  Sergeant  Jerry  Platt!"  the  blond  giant 
cried;  "here  is  where  the  regulations  bear  heavy  on 
a  man,  for  we  can't  invite  you  to  join  up." 

The  Sergeant  laughed.  "You  bad  boys;  if  some- 
body hasn't  a  permit  for  this  I'll  have  to  run  you 
all  in." 

Platt's  companion,  Corporal  McBane,  lengthened 
his  Hour  face  and  added:  "Drinkin'  unlawful  whisky 
is  a  dreadful  sin." 

"Shut  your  eyes,  you  two  chaps,  and  open  your 
mouths,"  FitzHerbert  bantered;  "that  wouldn't  be 
taking  a  drink." 

"Let  me  see  the  permit,"  Platt  asked,  ignoring 
the  chaff. 

When  he  had  examined  the  official  script  he  said, 
"Sorry,  gentlemen,  to  have  troubled  you." 

As  the  two  policemen  turned  away  Platt  nodded 
to  Carney,  the  jovial  cast  of  his  countenance  passing 
into  a  slightly  cynical  transition. 

"Good  fellows,"  Harden  remarked;  "our  Scotch 
friend  had  tears  of  regret  standing  in  his  eyes  at 
sight  of  the  keg." 

"Yes,  and  they  have  a  beastly  task,"  FitzHerbert 
declared;  "this  liquor  law  is  all  wrong.  To  keep  it 
from  the  Indians  white  men  out  here  have  to  be 
treated  like  babes  or  prisoners.  That's  why  every- 
body is  against  the  police  when  the  law  interferes 


EVIL  SPIRITS 

with  just  rights,  but  with  them  when  they're  putting 
down  crime." 

'The  worst  part  of  it  is,"  Carney  added,  "thai 
sometimes  a  bull-headed  man  who  has  all  the  in- 
stincts of  a  thief  catcher  becomes  a  sergeant  in  the 
force,  and  can't  interpret  the  law  with  any  human 
intelligence.  Fortunately,  it's  only  one  once  in  a 
while." 

The  ragged  stranger  shook  himself  out  of  the 
gentle  state  of  quiescent  restfulness  the  whisky  had 
produced  to  say:  "There  will  be  a  freshet  of  this 
stuff  in  Fort  Calbert  in  a  few  days." 

"Put  me  down  for  a  barrel,  O  joyful  stranger," 
FitzHerbert  exclaimed  eagerly. 

Carney's  gray  eyes  had  widened  a  little  at  the 
stranger's  statement. 

"You  can  apply  to  Superintendent  Kane,"  the  lit- 
tle man  answered;  "he  will  have  the  handling  of  it, 
I  fancy — a  carload." 

FitzHerbert's  blue  eyes  searched  Carney's,  but 
the  latter  sat  as  if  playing  poker. 

"Tell  us  about  it,  man,"  Enders  suggested. 

"I  pulled  into  Fort  Calbert  this  morning,"  the 
other  contributed,  "and  a  jocular  constable  took  me 
to  the  Fort  as  a  vagrant." 

"Your  equipage  was  against  you,"  Enders  advised. 

"Don't  think  anything  of  that,"  FitzHerbert 
said;  "the  hobos  have  been  running  neck-and-neck 
with  the  gophers  about  here;  they  burned  up  five 
freight  cars  in  two  weeks.  The  police  have  been 
shaken  up  over  it  by  the  O.C." 


266  BULLDOG  CARNEY 

The  little  man  drew  from  a  pocket  of  his  coat 
a  bag  of  gold,  and  clapped  it  gently  on  the  table. 

"You  had  your  credentials,"  and  FitzHerbert 
nodded. 

"I'd  been  washing  gold  down  on  the  bars  at  Vic- 
toria. It  was  this  way.  I  have  a  farm  there,  and 
last  year  I  put  in  thirty  acres  of  oats.  It  was  a 
rotten  crop  and  I  didn't  cut  it.  This  year  it  came 
up  a  volunteer  crop — a  splendid  one;  I  sold  it  to 
Major  Grisbold,  at  Fort  Saskatchewan,  standing. 
Now  I'm  on  my  holidays,  just  a  little  pleasure  jaunt." 

"The  constable  took  you  to  the  Fort?"  FitzHer- 
bert suggested,  for  the  little  man's  mind  had  re- 
turned to  the  convivial  association  of  his  gla,ss. 

"By  Jovel  forgive  me,  gentlemen — about  the 
whisky:  While  I  was  waiting  for  an  audience  with 
the  Polica  Ogema  I  heard,  through  an  open  door, 
a  pow-wow  over  a  telegram  that  had  just  come.  Its 
general  statement  was  that  whisky  was  being  loaded 
at  Winnipeg  on  car  6100  for  delivery  at  Bald  Rock. 
The  Major  gave  the  Sergeant  orders  to  seize  the 
car  here." 

"Who  owns  the  whisky?"  FitzHerbert  asked. 

"I  heard  the  O.C.  say,  'It's  that  damn  Bulldog 
Carney  again!'  so  I  suppose " 

The  speaker's  eyes  opened  in  wondering  per/- 
plexity  at  the  blizzard  of  merriment  that  cut  oiff 
his  supposition;  neither  could  he  understand  why 
FitzHerbert  clapped  a  hand  on  his  shoulder  and 
cried,  "Old  top,  you're  a  joy!" 

The  laughter  had  but  died  down  when  Carney 


EVIL  SPIRITS  267 

rose,  and,  addressing  the  little  man,  held  out  his 
hand,  saying:  "I'm  very  glad  to  have  met  you,  sir." 
Then  he  was  gone. 

"I  like  that  man,"  the  derelict  declared.  "What's 
his  name — you  didn't  introduce  me?" 

"That  gentleman  is  Mr.  Bulldog  Carney,"  Fitz- 
Herbert  answered  solemnly. 

"Oh,  I  say!"  the  other  gasped. 

"Don't  worry;  you've  probably  done  him  a  good 
turn,"  FitzHerbert  answered. 

The  stranger  blinked  his  solemn  eyes  as  if  de- 
bating something;  then  he  related:  "My  name  is 
Reginald  Llewellyn  Fordyce-Anstruther;  from  An- 
struther  Hall  one  can  drive  a  golf  ball  into  either 
one  of  three  counties — Surrey,  Sussex,  or  Kent." 

In  retaliation  each  of  the  five  presented  himself 
at  decorous  length. 

From  the  Victoria  Carney  strolled  to  the  railway 
station  and  sent  a  telegram  to  John  Arliss  at  Winni- 
peg. It  was  an  ordinary  ranch-type  of  message, 
about  a  registered  bull  that  was  being  shipped.  In 
the  evening  he  had  an  answer  to  the  effect  that  the 
bull  would  be  well  looked  after. 

Then  Sergeant  Jerry  Platt  paid  several  visits  daily 
to  the  railway  station  for  little  chats  with  a  con- 
stable who  patrolled  its  platform  from  morning 
till  night. 

On  the  sixth  day  a  gigantic,  black-headed,  drab 
snake  crawled  across  the  prairie  from  the  east,  and 
toward  its  tail  one  Joint  of  the  vertebrae  was  num-i 
bered  6100. 


268  BULLDOG  CARNEY 

Sergeant  Jerry  was  on  hand,  and  his  eye  bright- 
ened; the  advice  the  Major  had  received  was  re- 
liable, evidently. 

The  station  master  knew  nothing  about  the  car; 
it  was  through  freight — not  for  Fort  Calbert 

Bulldog  Carney  had  wandered  unobtrusively 
down  to  the  station;  a  dry  smile  hovered  about  his 
lips  as  he  listened  to  the  argument  between  the 
amiable  Jerry  and  the  rather  important  magnate  of 
the  C.  P.  R. 

"Lovely!"  he  muttered  once  to  himself  as  he 
wandered  closer  to  the  discussion. 

It  was  a  case  of  when  great  bodies  collide.  The 
C.  P.  R.  was  a  mighty  force,  and  its  agents  some- 
times felt  the  tremendousness  of  their  power:  the 
Mounted  Police  were  not  accustomed  to  being  balked 
when  they  issued  an  order. 

Jerry  wanted  the  seals  broken  on  the  car.  This 
the  agent  flatly  refused  to  do ;  rules  were  rules,  and 
he  only  took  orders,  re  railroad  matters,  from  his 
superior  officer. 

Jerry  was  firm ;  but  the  famous  Jerry  Platt  smile 
never  left  his  face  for  long.  "There's  booze  in  that 
car,  Mr.  Craig,"  he  declared. 

"How  do  you  know?"  the  station  agent  retorted. 

"Perhaps  we  got  the  info  from  Bulldog  Carney, 
there,"  and  Jerry  laughed. 

Perhaps  Bulldog  had  been  waiting  for  a  legitimate 
opening,  for  he  jumped: 

"I  think  it  is  altogether  incredible,  Sergeant 
Jerry,'"  he  answered;  "Ottawa  would  never  let  that 


EVIL  SPIRITS  269 

much  liquor  get  out  of  Ontario — they  have  use  for 
it  down  that  way." 

"It's  booze,"  Jerry  asserted  flatly;  "and  I'm  going 
to  tell  you  something  on  the  level,  Bulldog.  You're 
a  hell  of  a  nice  fellow,  but  if  I  get  the  evidence  I 
expect  to  get  you'll  go  into  the  pen  just  as  though 
I  never  set  eyes  on  you." 

Carney  laughed.  "When  you  say  the  word,  Jerry, 
and  I  can't  make  a  get-away,  I'm  yours  without 
trouble.  But  I  don't  mind  laying  you  a  bet  of  ten 
dollars  that  somebody's  been  pulling  your  Super- 
intendent's leg.  A  carload  of  whisky  is  simply  pre- 
posterous." 

This  little  by-play  had  given  Sergeant  Platt  time 
for  a  second  thought.  He  could  see  that  the  agent 
was  one  of  those  duty-set  men,  and  would  not  break 
the  seal  of  the  car;  and  without  authority  he  did 
not  care  to  take  it  on  himself. 

"Look  here,  Craig,"  he  said,  "cut  that  car  off. 
I'll  get  the  O.C.  to  come  down;  in  the  meantime 
you  might  wire  your  divisional  point  how  to  act. 
We've  simply  got  to  detain  the  car  even  if  we  use 
force ;  but  I  don't  want  to  get  you  into  trouble." 

A  look  of  pleasure  suffused  Carney's  face;  for  or 
against  him,  he  admired  brains  in  a  man.  And 
Jerry's  determination  and  bravery  were  also  well 
known.  He  turned  to  the  station  master  saying: 

"I  don't  want  to  horn  in  on  this  round-up,  Craig, 
but  I  fancy  that's  the  proper  way.  I've  a  curiosity 
to  see  just  what  is  in  that  car." 

Sergeant  Platt  waited  patiently;  and  the  conduc- 


270  BULLDOG  CARNEY 

tor  of  the  freight  train  was  now  on  the  platform 
asking  for  his  "line  clear." 

Craig  was  up  against  a  new  situation.  His  com- 
pany was  powerful,  and  would  back  him  up  if  he  were 
absolutely  in  the  right,  but  they  also  expected  of  a 
man  a  certain  amount  of  intelligence  plus  his  orders; 
they  didn't  encourage  friction  between  their  em- 
ployees and  the  Mounted. 

"Cut  off  6100,  Jim,  and  run  her  into  the  sidin'," 
he  said  curtly  to  the  conductor.  And  as  a  panacea 
to  his  capitulation  he  added:  "If  you've  got  some- 
body else's  freight  there,  Jerry,  I'd  advise  you  to 
apply  for  a  job  as  brakeman,  you're  so  damned  fond 
of  runnin'  the  C.  P.  R." 

Platt  laughed  and,  turning  to  the  constable,  said : 
"Gallop  down  to  the  Fort,  report  to  the  O.C.,  and 
ask  him  for  a  written  order  to  break  the  seals  on 
this  car,  as  the  agent  refuses  to." 

So  6100  was  lanced  from  the  drab  snake's  body, 
and  then  the  reptile  crawled  up  the  grade  toward 
the  foothills,  the  tail-end  joint,  the  caboose,  flick- 
ing about  derisively  as  it  hobbled  over  the  uneven 
track. 

An  inkling  of  what  was  on  had  come  to  the  ears 
of  the  citizens;  casually  the  worthy  people  saun- 
tered down  to  the  station.  They  were  thirsty  souls, 
for  permits  did  not  grow  on  every  lamp  post.  That 
a  whole  carload  of  whisky  had  been  seized  bred  a 
demoralizing  thirst.  It  was  doomed,  of  course, 
to  be  poured  out  on  the  parched  earth,  but  the  event 
had  an  attraction  like  a  funeral. 


EVIL  SPIRITS  271 

At  the  end  of  half  an  hour  the  constable  returned, 
not  only  with  a  written  order,  but  accompanied  by 
Major  Kane  himself.  Behind  came  a  heavy  police 
wagon,  drawn  by  an  upstanding  pair  of  bays. 

The  Major  was  a  jaunty,  wiry  little  man;  his 
braided  cap,  cocked  at  a  defiant  angle  on  his  grizzled 
head,  suggested  the  comb  of  a  Black-Red,  a  game 
cock.  He  had  originally  been  a  sergeant  in  the  Im- 
perial forces,  and  in  his  speech  there  was  the  savor 
of  London  fog. 

"What's  this,  my  good  man  ?"  The  words  popped 
from  his  thin  lips  as  he  addressed  the  agent.  "You 
should  have  broken  the  seals  on  that  car:  do  so 
now!" 

"You'll  take  the  responsibility,  then,  sir,"  Craig 
answered. 

"My  word!  we're  always  doing  that,  always — 
that's  what  we're  here  for,  to  take  responsibility; 
the  Force  is  noted  for  it." 

There  was  an  ominous  squint  in  the  little  man's 
eye,  which  was  fastened  on  Carney  rather  than  the 
agent,  as  he  said  this.  Now,  led  by  the  Major, 
a  procession  headed  for  the  car  of  interest. 

The  station  agent  clipped  the  seal  wire,  and  as 
the  door  was  slid  open,  the  sunlight  streaming  in 
picked  out  the  goodly  forms  of  several  oak  barrels. 

The  Major's  lips  clipped  out  a  sharp  "Ha!"  and 
Sergeant  Jerry  grinned  at  Bulldog  Carney. 

It  must  be  confessed  that  Bulldog's  gray  eyes  held 
a  trifle  of  astonishment  over  this  exhibit. 

At  a  command  two  constables  had  popped  into 


272  BULLDOG  CARNEY 

the  car,  and  the  Major,  turning  to  Sergeant  Jerry, 
said,  "Back  the  wagon  up,  Sergeant,  and  take  this 
stuff  to  the  fort." 

The  station  master  interposed:  "I  think,  Major, 
that  if  you're  seizing  this  stuff  as  liquor  you'd  better 
make  sure.  Them  bar'ls  looks  a  bit  too  greasy 
and  dirty  to  be  whisky  bar'ls." 

"Just  a  clever  little  covering  up  of  the  trail  by  a 
foxy  whisky-runner,"  the  Major  said  pleasantly, 
and  let  his  shrewd  eyes  almost  wink  at  Carney.  "But 
I'll  humor  you,  Mr.  Craig.  Have  one  of  your  sec- 
tion-men bring  a  sledge  and  we'll  knock  in  the  head 
of  a  barrel;  it's  got  to  be  destroyed;  the  devilish 
stuff  gives  us  trouble  enough." 

One  of  the  yard-men  brought  a  sledge;  a  barrel 
was  rolled  out,  stood  on  end,  and  the  yard-man 
swung  his  heavy,  long-nosed  spike-driving  sledge. 
At  the  second  blow  it  went  through,  and  a  little 
fountain  of  syrup  fluttered  up  like  a  spray  of  gold 
in  the  sunlight. 

"Oh,  my  aunt!"  FitzHerbert  exclaimed;  "you've 
struck  it  sweet  this  time,  Major." 

A  little  group  of  Sarcees  who  had  viewed  with 
apathetic  indifference  the  turmoil  of  the  whites, 
swarmed  forward  like  so  many  bees,  dipped  their 
dirty  fingers  in  the  treacle,  and  lapped  it  off  with 
grunts  of  appreciation.  It  was  Long  Dog-leg  who 
grunted:  "Heap  big  chief,  Redcoat  man!  Him 
damn  good;  break  him  more!" 

"Dump  out  another  barrel,"  the  nettled  Major 
commanded. 


EVIL  SPIRITS  273 

This  oaken  casket  when  shattered  by  the  sledge 
cast  oil  on  the  troubled  waters — literally,  for  it  con- 
tained good  healthy  kerosene. 

The  citizens  yelped  with  delight.  Dog-leg  begged 
the  Major  not  to  waste  these  things  of  an  Indian's 
desire,  but  give  them  to  his  tribe. 

The  station  agent,  realizing  that  he  had  been  on 
the  winning  horse  in  his  objection,  could  not  resist 
a  little  crow.  "Well,  Major,  you've  roped  some- 
thing at  last.  For  the  next  thirty  days  I  can  sit  up 
nights  answering  correspondence.  The  man  that 
owns  this  car  of  groceries  will  want  to  know  what 
the  hell  the  company's  up  to  broaching  his  goods. 
The  Superintendent  of  the  Western  Division  will 
want  to  know  why  I  side-track  freight  billed  through 
Fort  Calbert.  You  said  you'd  take  responsibility, 
but  you've  given  me  a  big  lot  of  work,  and  I  ain't 
none  too  well  paid  as  it  is.  Somebody's  double- 
crossed  you." 

"And,  by  George  I  I'll  keep  after  that  somebody 
till  I  get  him,  if  I  have  to  follow  him  to  the  North 
Polel"  Major  Kane  answered  crossly. 

Then  the  constables  investigated  the  car's  interior. 
There  were  barrels  of  sugar,  biscuit,  bundles  of 
brooms,  boxes  of  salt  cod,  tins  of  peas,  beans — in 
fact  the  car's  interior  was  a  replica  of  a  well-ordered 
grocery  store  rather  than  the  duplicate  of  a  bar- 
room. 

The  Major  was  mystified.  They  certainly  had  got 
the  car  that  had  been  wired  on  by  the  Secret  Intelli- 
gence Department  as  containing  whisky. 


274  BULLDOG  CARNEY 

He  had  no  word  of  another  car;  what  could  he 
do?  Beyond  Fort  Calbert  were  several  small  placea 
on  the  line  where  there  were  neither  police  nor  men 
who  either  feared  or  were  friendly  to  the  law.  He 
turned  to  the  station  master,  saying: 

"Craig,  can't  you  wire  ahead  and  see  if  you  can 
get  that  car  of  whisky  cut  off?  I  believe  it's  on  that 
train." 

"How'd  I  know  what  car  to  cut  out ;  besides,  I've 
no  jurisdiction  outside  my  own  station.  As  it  is, 
the  company'll  have  a  bill  of  damages  to  pay,  and, 
of  course,  somebody  on  a  three-legged  stool  at  head 
office'll  try  to  cut  it  out  of  my  pay.  You'd  better 
have  your  men  put  those  packages  back  in  the 
car,  so  I  can  seal  it  up.  I'm  going  in  to  wire  the 
Superintendent  of  the  Western  Division  at  Winnipeg 
to  report  the  whole  thing  to  your  Commissioner  at 
Regina." 

Some  Stoney  Indians,  with  the  Sarcees,  watched 
sadly  the  return  of  the  broken  barrels  of  desire  to 
the  car;  not  since  they  had  looted  the  H.  B.  Coy's 
store  at  Fort  Platt  had  there  been  such  a  pleasing 
prospect  of  something  for  nothing. 

The  constables  mounted  their  horses  and  with  the 
police  wagon  departed. 

Sergeant  Jerry  Platt,  in  a  little  detour  passed  close 
to  Carney,  saying,  as  he  slacked  his  pace:  "Bulldog, 
you're  too  damn  hot  for  this  country;  Montana,  I 
would  suggest  as  a  wider  field.  But  we'll  get  the 
goods  on  you  yet,  old  top." 


EVIL  SPIRITS  075 

"Then    Montana   might  prove    attractive,    dear 
Jerry." 

^The  Major  walked  away  stiffly,  pondering  over 
this  mixed-up  affair.  He  would  wire  to  one  of  his 
outposts  up  in  the  hills;  but  he  was  handicapped 
by  his  now  want  of  data.  With  whisky  as  the  bone 
of  contention  everybody's  hand  would  be  against 
the  force — the  very  train  men,  if  they  could  get 
away  with  it. 

Carney  had  viewed  the  incident  with  complacency. 
If  6100  contained  groceries  then  the  other  car,  for 
there  was  one,  had  got  safely  through  with  its 
holding  of  liquor.  Carney  had  known  before  his 
telegram  was  sent  that  Jack  Arliss  was  shipping 
two  cars — one  of  goods  and  one  of  whisky;  one 
consigned  to  John  Ross,  and  one  to  Dan  Stewart; 
and  John  Ross  was  also  of  the  gang,  though  os- 
tensibly an  industrious  storekeeper  in  the  next  town 
to  Bald  Rock,  Dan  Stewart's  habitat.  Of  course, 
neither  car  would  be  billed  as  liquor.  How  Arliss 
had  double-crossed  the  police,  either  by  shifting  the 
goods  or  juggling  the  shipping  bills,  did  not  mat- 
ter. 

Carney's  telegram  telling  Arliss  that  the  police 
at  Fort  Calbert  were  going  to  seize  6100  made  it 
a  sure  thing  for  that  gentleman  to  shoot  through  the 
whisky  under  another  number,  and  a  day  ahead  of 
the  suspected  car. 

Back  at  the  Fort,  Major  Kane  called  in  Sergeant 
Jerry  for  a  consultation.  Jerry  had  been  in  the 
force  for  many  years;  he  had  risen  from  the  position 


276  BULLDOG  CARNEY 

of  scout  and  knew  every  trick  and  curve  of  the 
game;  besides,  which  was  almost  a  greater  asset, 
he  was  liked  of  the  citizens. 

"Bulldog  '11  stay  right  here,"  he  advised;  "he's 
got  brains,  the  cool  kind  that  don't  sputter  in  the 
pan.  It  wouldn't  do  a  bit  of  good  to  round  him 
up,  for  we  haven't  got  a  thing  on  him — not  a  thing. 
He's  so  well  liked  that  nobody'll  give  him  away; 
he  plays  the  game  like  Robin  Hood  used  to.  Dan 
Stewart  '11  handle  this  stuff;  but  till  you've  clapped 
your  hands  on  somebody  with  the  goods  we'll  be 
guessing.  A  lot  of  it'll  be  run  into  the  plains — there 
isn't  a  rancher  wouldn't  buy  a  barrel  of  it,  and  swear 
he'd  never  heard  of  it.  Every  white  man  is  against 
this  law,  sir.  They  don't  think  Carney's  breakin' 
the  law." 

The  Major  pondered  a  little,  then  he  said:  "In- 
struct the  Sergeant  Major  to  send  out  a  patrol  up 
toward  the  foothills,  with  orders  to  get  some  of 
this  consignment,  and  some  of  the  runners  at  any 
cost." 

So  that  night  a  patrol  rode  into  the  western 
gloom. 

Next  day,  as  Sergeant  Jerry  strolled  out  of  the 
stockade  gate,  he  was  accosted  by  a  French  half- 
breed,  who  intimated  that  for  a  matter  of  ten  dol- 
lars, paid  in  hand,  he  would  tell  Jerry  where  he 
could  nab  a  big  lot  of  whisky  as  it  was  being  run 
the  following  night. 

The  informant  refused  Jerry's  invitation  to  ac- 
company him  to  the  Commanding  Officer.  To  insist 


EVIL  SPIRITS  277 

would  only  frighten  him,  and  a  frightened  breed 
always  lied;  so  Jerry,  taking  a  gambling  chance, 
passed  over  the  ten,  and  learned  that  in  the  night 
a  whisky  caravan  would  come  along  the  trail  that 
crossed  the  ford  at  Whispering  Water  heading  for 
Fort  Calbert  itself. 

This  was  quite  in  keeping  with  Carney's  audac- 
ity; and  Jerry,  still  wondering  that  anybody  would 
give  away  Bulldog,  carried  the  information  to  the 
Major. 

"We'll  have  to  act  on  it,"  Major  Kane  declared; 
"'sometimes  a  breed  will  sell  his  own  wife  for  a  slab 
of  bacon." 

When  night  had  settled  down  over  the  prairie 
Sergeant  Jerry  Platt,  Corporal  McBane,  and  three 
constables  rode  quietly  through  the  gates,  and,  skirt- 
ing the  west  wall  of  the  stockade,  drifted  away  to 
the  southwest. 

At  ten  o'clock  the  police  were  snugly  hidden  in 
the  heavy  willow  bush  of  a  little  valley  through  which 
rippled  Whispering  Water;  their  horses  had  been 
taken  back  on  the  trail  by  one  constable.  A  bull's- 
eye  lantern  fastened  to  a  stake  just  topped  a  rock. 
In  this  position,  when  the  slide  was  pulled,  its  rays 
would  light  up  the  trail  where  it  dipped  from  the 
cut-bank  to  the  stream. 

They  lay  for  an  hour  in  the  little  bluff  of  willows. 
A  moon  that  had  hung  in  the  western  sky  wander- 
ing lazily  toward  the  distant  saw-toothed  ridge  of 
the  Rockies,  had  passed  behind  the  gigantic  stone 
wall,  and  a  sombre  gloom  had  obliterated  the  un- 


278  BULLDOG  CARNEY 

even  edge  of  the  cut-bank.  In  the  belly  of  the  valley 
it  was  just  a  well  of  blackness,  cut  at  times  by  a  pen- 
ciled line  of  silver  where  the  waters  swirled  around 
a  cutting  rock.  The  stillness  was  oppressive  for  the 
air  was  dead;  no  winger  of  the  night  passed;  no 
animal  of  the  prairie,  gopher  or  coyote,  disturbed 
the  solemn  hush;  nobody  spoke;  in  each  one's  mind 
was  the  unworded  thought  that  they  waited  for  a 
.man  that  was  known  to  be  without  fear,  a  man  to 
Jwhom  odds  meant  little  or  nothing. 

As  they  lay  chest  to  earth  in  the  heavy  grass  Cor- 
poral McBane  pivoted  his  body  on  elbows  close  to 
Sergeant  Jerry  and  whispered:  "I'm  glad,  man, 
you  suggested  the  flare.  In  the  dark,  wi'  promiscu- 
ous shootin',  there  might  be  killin',  and  I'd  no  like 
to  pot  Bulldog  myself,  even  if  he  is  a  whisky  run- 
ner." 

Jerry  laughed  a  soft,  throaty  chuckle.  "You'd 
have  a  fine  chance,  Mac,  with  that  old  .44  Enfield 
pepper-box  against  Carney  with  his  .45  Colt;  he 
just  plays  it  like  a  girl  fingerin'  the  keys  of  a  piano; 
those  gray  cat-eyes  of  his  can  see  in  the  dark." 

"Well,  wi'  the  flare  on  him  he'll  quit.  It's  only 
damn  fools  that  won't  wait  for  a  better  chance." 

"We  had  him  once  before,"  Jerry  said  reflectively, 
"and  he  gave  us  the  slip;  just  for  the  joke  of  it,  too, 
for  it  was  that  train  hold-up,  and  it  was  proved  after 
he  had  nothing  to  do  with  it.  But  listen  to  this, 
Scottie,  we  both  like  Bulldog,  but  if  he  bucks  us, 
we  belong  to  the  Force." 

"Aye,  I'm  aware  of  it,   Sergeant;  and  Bulldog 


EVIL  SPIRITS  279 

himself  wouldn't  thank  us  to  spit  on  our  salt.  But 
what  makes  you  think  he'll  be  with  this  outfit?" 

"Because  it's  just  one  of  his  damned  mad  capers 
to  run  it  into  Fort  Calbert  under  our  noses,  and 
he  wouldn't  ask  anyone  to  run  the  risk  and  not  be 
there." 

But  McBane  had  a  Scotch  reluctance  to  believe  in 
foolish  bravado.  "It's  no  sense,  Sergeant,"  he  ob- 
jected, "and  Carney's  vera  clever." 

Suddenly,  on  top  of  the  cut  bank  where  the  trail 
dipped  through  the  sandy  wall,  something  blurred 
the  blue-black  sky;  there  was  a  heavy,  slipping,  slid- 
ing noise  as  if  a  giant  sheet  of  sand-paper  were  being 
shoved  along  the  earth.  There  was  the  creaking 
of  wood  on  wood,  the  dull  thump  of  an  axle  in  a 
hub;  a  softened,  just  perceptible  thud,  thud  of  muf- 
fled hoofs. 

The  shuffling  noise  that  was  as  if  some  serpent 
dragged  its  length  over  the  deep  sands  of  the  cut 
was  opposite  the  armed  men  when  the  voice  of  Ser- 
geant Platt  rang  out  in  a  sharp  command: 

"Halt !  hands  up — you  are  covered !  If  you  move 
we  fire  1" 

At  the  first  word,  "Halt!"  the  bull's-eye  threw  its 
arrogant  glare  of  light  upon  the  creeping  thing  of 
noise.  It  painted  against  the  cut-bank  the  bleary- 
eyed  cayuse,  the  archaic  Red  River  cart,  and  the 
unformidable  figure  of  the  Honorable  Reginald 
Fordyce-Anstruther— that  was  all.  That  is  to  say, 
all  but  five  square  tins,  atop  of  which  sat  the  outlaw, 
Reggie. 


280  BULLDOG  CARNEY 

Tt  was  a  goblined,  pathetically  inadequate  figure 
sitting  atop  the  tins,  the  lean  attenuated  arms  held 
high  as  if  in  beseechment. 

Sergeant  Jerry  cursed  softly;  then  he  laughed; 
and  Corporal  McBane  exclaimed:  "Ma  God!  it's 
like  catchin'  a  red  herrin'." 

But  Jerry,  careful  scout,  whispered:  "Circle  to 
the  rear,  Corporal;  keep  out  of  the  light;  it  may  be 
a  blind." 

Soon  McBane's  voice  was  heard  from  the  cut- 
bank:  "All  clear,  Sergeant." 

Then  Sergeant  Jerry,  stepping  into  the  open,  ex- 
amined the  exhibit.  Instead  of  carrying  concealed 
weapons  Reggie  had  a  fair  load  of  concealed  spirits; 
he  was  fully  half-drunk.  Questions  only  brought 
some  nebulous  answers  about  the  permit  being  up 
in  Fort  Calbert,  and  that  he  was  bringing  in  the 
goods.  Even  Jerry's  proverbial  good  nature  was 
sorely  taxed. 

"I'm  gettin'  fed  up  on  these  damned  tricks  of 
Bulldog's,"  he  growled,  "for  that's  what  it  is." 

"I'm  not  sure,"  McBane  objected;  "this  ninny 
may  ha'  blabbed,  and  yon  breed,  hearin'  it,  saw  a 
chance  to  make  a  shillin'  or  two." 

However,  Reggie,  and  his  cayuse  and  the  whisky 
were  attached  and  escorted  in  to  barracks. 

Perhaps  it  was  the  fortifying  courage  of  the 
whisky  the  villain  had  imbibed  that  caused  him  to 
bear  up  remarkably  well  under  this  misfortune  of 
the  very  great  possibility  of  losing  his  not-too-valu- 


EVIL  SPIRITS  281 

able  outfit;  or  he  may  have  known  of  some  fairy 
who  would  make  good  his  fine. 

In  the  morning  the  liquor  was  very  formally 
taken  out  to  the  usual  sacrifice  place,  just  at  the  back 
of  the  barracks,  and  in  the  presence  of  the  Super- 
intendent and  a  small  guard  of  constables,  poured 
in  a  gurgling  libation  upon  the  thirsting  sand-bank 
of  a  little  ravine.  Then  the  empty  tins  were  tossed 
disdainfully  into  the  coulee. 

Back  in  the  Fort  Major  Kane  said:  "This  was 
all  a  blind,  Sergeant  Platt;  none  of  the  stuff  will 
come  down  this  way — they'll  run  it  up  among  the 
miners  and  lumberjacks.  Take  Lemoine  the  scout, 
and  pick  up  some  of  the  patrol  up  about  the  Pass." 
In  half  an  hour  Sergeant  Jerry  rode  out  from 
the  Fort  into  the  west;  and  by  the  middle  of  the 
afternoon  Corporal  McBane  reported  to  the  O.C. 
that  the  few  constables  remaining  in  the  Fort  were 
drunk — half  were  in  the  guard  room. 

The  Major  was  horrified.  Where  had  the  liquor 
come  from?  Corporal  McBane  didn't  know. 

In  his  perplexity  the  Major,  stick  in  hand,  stalked 
angrily  to  the  scene  of  the  morning  sacrifice.  The 
mound  apparently  had  not  been  disturbed.  He  had 
a  nebulous  idea  that  perhaps  the  men  had  chewed 
up  the  saturated  earth.  He  jabbed  viciously  at  the 
spot  with  his  walking  stick  as  if  spearing  the  alco- 
holic demon.  At  the  third  thrust  his  stick  went 
through,  suggesting  a  hole.  With  boot  and  hand  the 
Major  sent  the  sand  flying.  A  foot  down  he  camf 
upon  a  gunny  sack.  Beneath  this  was  a  neat  cross- 


282  BULLDOG  CARNEY 

hatching  of  willow  wands  resting  atop  an  iron  grat- 
ing that  was  supported  by  a  tub;  a  tub  boned  from 
the  laundry,  but  the  strong  odor  that  struck  the 
Superintendent's  nostrils  was  not  suds — it  was 
whisky. 

He  yanked  the  tub  out  of  the  cavity  and  kicked  it 
into  the  coulee.  Then  he  stood  up  and  mopped  his 
perspiring  forehead,  muttering:  "The  devils!  the 
cursed  stuff !  It's  that  damned  outlaw,  Bulldog  Car- 
ney, that's  put  them  up  to  this.  The  liquor  that  poor 
waster  brought  in  was  just  a  blind,  the  tip  from  the 
half-breed  was  part  of  his  devilish  plot.  It's  a 
game  to  put  my  men  on  the  blink  while  he  runs  that 
carload." 

Rage  swirled  in  the  Major's  heart  as  he  turned 
toward  the  Fort;  but  before  he  had  reached  the 
gates  his  sense — and  the  little  man  had  lots  of  it — 
laid  embargo  on  his  tongue,  and  he  passed  silently 
to  his  quarters  to  sit  on  the  verandah  and  curse  softly 
to  himself. 

He  was  sick  of  the  whole  whisky  business.  He 
had  been  in  the  Mounted  from  the  very  first,  fif- 
teen years  or  so  of  it  now.  They  had  not  come 
into  the  Territories  to  be  pitted  against  the  social 
desires  of  the  white  inhabitants  who  were  in  all 
other  things  law  abiding;  but  here  this  very  thing 
took  up  more  than  half  their  time  and  energy.  And 
it  was  a  losing  game  with  the  cunning  and  desires  of 
a  hundred  men  pitted  against  every  one  of  his 
force. 

There  were  rumors  that  it  was  soon  to  be  changed 


EVIL  SPIRITS  283 

— the  trade  legitimatized;  that  is,  for  Alberta  to 
the  Athabasca  border.  With  a  small  army  of  clever 
whisky  traders,  no  licenses,  no  supervision  against 
them,  it  was  a  matter  of  impossibility  to  keep  liquor 
from  the  half-breeds  who  were  a  sort  of  carry-on 
station  to  the  Indians. 

To  trail  murderers,  gun-men,  cattle  and  horse 
thieves,  day  after  day  across  the  trackless  prairie, 
or  the  white  sheet-of-snow  buried  plain,  was  an  ex- 
hilarating game — it  was  something  to  stimulate  the 
espirit  de  corps;  a  Mounted  Policeman,  feeling, 
when  he  had  landed  his  man,  full  reward  for  all  his 
hardships  and  danger;  but  to  poke  around  like  an 
ordinary  city  sleuth  and  bag  some  poor  devil  of  a 
breed  with  a  bottle  of  whisky,  only  to  have  him  up 
before  the  magistrate  for  a  small  fine  was,  to  say  the 
least,  disquieting;  it  made  his  men  half  ashamed  of 
their  mission. 

Of  course  the  present  incident  was  not  petty;  it 
was  like  Bulldog  Carney  himself — big;  and  the 
Major  would  have  given,  right  there,  a  half-year's 
pay  to  have  bagged  Bulldog,  and  so,  perhaps  have 
broken  up  the  ring. 

But  determined  as  the  force  was,  the  British  law- 
was  greater  still.  Without  absolute,  convicting  evi- 
dence Carney  would  have  been  acquitted,  and  the 
Major  perhaps  censured  for  making  a  mistake. 

At  headquarters  was  a  fixed  edict:  "Take  no 
position  from  which  you  will  have  to  recede,"  really, 
"Don't  make  mistakes." 

As  the  little  man  sat  thinking  over  these  many 


284  BULLDOG  CARNEY 

things,  sore  at  heart  at  the  quirky  thrust  Fate  had 
dealt  him,  for  he  loved  the  Mounted,  loved  his  du- 
ties, loved  the  very  men,  until  sometimes  breaking 
under  the  strain  of  service  in  the  lonely  wastes 
they  cracked  and  a  weak  streak  showed — then  he 
was  a  tiger,  a  martinet;  no  sparing:  "Out  you  go, 
you  hound!"  he  would  snap;  "you're  a  disgrace  to 
the  Force,  and  it's  got  to  be  kept  clean." 

Then  "Dismissed"  would  be  written  opposite  the 
man's  name  in  the  annual  report  that  went  from  the 
Commissioner  at  Regina  to  the  "Comptroller  at 
Ottawa." 

Suddenly  the  chorus  of  a  refrain  floated  to  his 
ears  from  the  guard  house — it  was  "The  Stirrup 
Cup." 

"God,  England!"  the  little  man  groaned. 
"That's  Cavendish  singing,"  he  muttered. 

How  long  and  broad  the  highway  of  life;  how 
human,  how  weakly  human  those  who  travelled  it! 
Cavendish,  a  younger  son  of  a  noble  family,  a  con- 
stable at  sixty  cents  a  day !  They  were  all  like  that 
— not  of  noble  family,  but  adventurers,  roamers, 
men  who  had  broken  the  shackles  of  restraint  all 
over  the  world.  That  was  largely  why  they  were  in 
the  Mounted;  certainly  not  because  of  the  sixty 
cents  a  day.  And,  so,  how,  even  in  his  bitterness 
of  set-awry-authority,  could  the  incident  of  the  tub 
be  a  heinous  crime  on  their  part. 

"By  gad!"  and  the  little  man  popped  from  his 
chair  and  paced  the  verartdah,  crying  inwardly: 
"They're  my  boys;  I'd  like  to  forgive  them  and 


EVIL  SPIRITS  285 

shoot  Carney— damn  him!  he's  at  the  bottom  of  it." 

The  great  arrogant  sun,  supreme  in  his  regal 
gold,  had  slipped  down  behind  the  jagged  mountain 
peaks  as  Carney,  on  his  little  buckskin,  and  the 
blond  giant,  FritzHerbert,  on  a  bay,  swung  at  a 
lope  out  of  Fort  Calbert  for  a  breather  over  the 
prairie. 

As  they  rode,  almost  silently,  they  suddenly  heard 
the  shuffling  "pit-a-pat,  pit-a-pat"  of  a  cayuse,  and  in 
a  little  cloud  of  white  dust  to  the  west  there  grew 
to  their  eyes  the  blurred  form  of  a  horseman  that 
seemed  to  droop  almost  to  the  horn  of  his  saddle. 

UA  tired  nichie,"  FitzHerbert  commented;  "he 
jmells  sow-belly  frying  in  the  town — he  hasn't 
eaten  for  a  moon,  I  should  say." 

The  dust  cloud  swirled  closer,  and  Carney's  gray 
eyes  picked  out  the  familiar  form  of  Lathy  George, 
one  of  Dan  Stewart's  men.  The  rider  yanked  his 
cayuse  to  a  stand  when  they  met,  almost  reeling 
from  the  saddle  in  exhaustion.  The  cayuse  spread 
his  legs,  drooped  his  head,  and  the  flanks  of  his 
lean  belly  pumped  as  if  his  lungs  were  parched. 

"Hello,  Bulldog  I"  then  the  man  looked  warily 
at  Carney's  companion. 

FitzHerbert  saw  the  look  and  knew  from  the 
stranger's  physical  shatterment  that  some  vital  er- 
rand had  spurred  him;  so  he  touched  a  heel  to  his 
bay's  flank  and  moved  slowly  along  the  trail. 

Then  the  rider  of  the  cayuse  in  tired,  panting 
gasps  gave  Carney  his  message. 

"All  right,  George,"  Bulldog  commented  at  the 


286  BULLDOG  CARNEY 

finish;  "go  to  the  Victoria,  feed  your  horse,  have 
a  good  supper,  get  a  room  and  sleep." 

"What'll  I  do,  boss,  when  I  wake  up — how  long'll 
I  sleep?" 

"As  long  as  you  like — a  week  if  you  want." 

"What'll  I  do  then — don't  you  need  me?" 

"No,  play  with  your  toes  if  you  like." 

Lathy  George  pulled  his  reeling  cayuse  together, 
and  pushed  on.  Carney  gave  a  whistle,  and  Fitz- 
Herbert,  wheeling  his  bay,  turned. 

"I've  got  to  go  back  to  town,"  Carney  said. 

"I'll  go  too,"  the  other  volunteered;  "this  devil- 
ish boundlessness  is  like  a  painted  sky  above  a 
painted  ocean — it  gives  me  the  lonely  willies." 

"There's  hell  to  pay  back  yonder,"  Carney  said, 
jerking  a  thumb  over  his  shoulder. 

"It's  always  back  there,  or  over  yonder — never 
here  when  there's  any  hell  to  pay,"  FitzHerbert  com- 
mented dejectedly;  "it's  just  one  long  plaintive  sab- 
bath." 

"I've  got  to  go  back  to  the  foothills  soon's  I've 
got  fixed  up,"  Carney  continued. 

"Me,  too — if  there's  action  there." 

"Hardly,  my  dear  boy;  it's  purely  a  matter  of 
diplomacy." 

"Absolutely,  Bulldog;  that's  why  you're  going. 
You're  going  to  kiss  somebody  on  both  cheeks,  pat 
him  on  the  back,  and  say,  'Here's  a  good  cigar  for 
you' — you  love  it.  What's  happened?" 

"The  Stonies  are  on  the  war-path." 

"Ugly   devils — part   Sioux.      They're   hunters — 


EVIL  SPIRITS  287 

blood  letters— first  cousins  to  the  Kilkenny  cats.  In 
the  rebellion,  a  few  years  ago,  only  for  the  Wood 
Crees  they'd  have  murdered  every  white  prisoner 
that  came  into  their  hands." 

"Yes,  they're  peppery  devils.  In  the  Frog  Lake 
massacre  one  of  them,  Itcka,  killed  a  white  man  or 
two  and  was  hanged  for  it." 

"What  started  them  now?"  FitzHerbert  asked 
"Whisky." 

FitzHerbert  stole  a  glance  at  Carney's  stolid 
face;  then  he  whistled;  Carney's  word  had  been  like 
a  gasp  of  confession,  for,  undoubtedly,  the  liquor 
was  from  the  car. 

"How  did  they  make  the  haul  ?"  he  asked. 
"The  Stonies  have  just  had  their  Treaty  Pay- 
ment, and  there's  a  new  regulation  that  they  may  go 
off  the  reserve  at  Morley  to  make  their  Fall  hunt  in 
the  mountains,  at  this  time ;  they  were  on  their  way, 
under  Chief  Standing  Bear,  when  they  ran  into  the 
gent  we've  just  met  and  his  mates  in  the  Vermillion 
Valley.  George  was  running  two  loads  of  whisky  up 
to  the  lumber  camps." 

"Great!  that  combination — lumberjacks,  Stonies, 
and  Whisky;  it  would  be  as  if  sheol  had  opened  a 
chute — there'll  be  murder." 

"I  know  Standing  Bear;  he  made  me  a  blood 
brother  of  his.  I  did  him  a  bit  of  a  turn.  I  was 
coming  through  the  Flathead  Valley  once,  and  the 
old  fellow  had  insulted  a  grizzly.  The  grizzly 
was  peeved,  for  the  Stoney  had  peppered  a  couple 
•of  silly  bullets  into  the  brute's  shoulder.  I  happened 


288  BULLDOG  CARNEY 

to  get  in  a  lucky  shot  and  stopped  the  silver-tip 
when  he  was  about  to  shampoo  old  Standing  Bear." 

"Yes,  I  heard  about  that — you  and  your  little 
buckskin.  Say,  Bulldog,  that  little  devil  must  have 
the  pluck  of  a  lion — they  say  he  carried  you  right 
up  to  the  grizzly,  and  you  pumped  him  full  of 
-45's." 

"That's  just  a  yarn,"  Carney  asserted;  "but,  any- 
way, the  Chief  and  I  are  good  friends.  I'm  going 
to  pull  out  and  persuade  him  to  go  back  to  the  re- 
serve. Jerry  Platt  has  gone  down  in  that  direction, 
and  you  know  what  the  Sergeant  is,  Fitz — he'll 
stack  up  against  that  tribe  alone;  if  they're  full  of 
fire-water,  and  have  been  rowing  with  the  lumber- 
jacks— their  squaws  will  be  along,  and  you  know 
what  that  means — Jerry  stands  a  mighty  good  chance 
of  being  killed.  I  feel  that  it  will  be  sort  of  my 
fault." 

"It's  rotten  to  go  alone,  Bulldog.  I'll  get  a  dozen 
of  the  fellows,  and  we'll  play  rugby  with  those  devil- 
ish nichies  if  they  don't  act  like  gentlemen." 

Carney  laughed.  "If  you'd  been  at  Duck  Lake 
or  Cut  Knife  you'd  know  all  about  that.  Your 
bally  Remittance  Men  wouldn't  have  a  chance,  Fitz 
— not  a  chance.  It  would  be  a  fight — your  hot  heads 
would  start  it — and  after  the  first  shot  you  wouldn't 
see  anything  to  shoot  at;  you'd  see  the  red  spit  of 
their  rifles,  and  hear  the  singing  note  of  their  bul- 
lets. These  Stonies  are  hunters;  they  can  outwit 
a  big-horn  in  the  mountains;  first  thing  he  knows 
of  their  approach  is  when  he's  bowled  over." 


EVIL  SPIRITS  289 

"How  are  you  going  to  do  it  then,  mister  man? 
Go  in  and  get  shot  up  just  because  you  feel  that  it's 
your  fault?" 

"No,  I'm  going  to  try  and  make  good.  If  I  can 
hook  up  with  Jerry  Platt  we'll  put  before  them  the 
strongest  kind  of  an  argument,  the  only  kind  they'll 
listen  to.  They'll  obey  the  Police  generally,  be- 
cause they  know  the  'Redcoat'  is  an  agent  of  the 
Queen,  the  White  Mother  who  feeds  them ;  but,  be- 
ing drunk,  the  young  bucks  will  be  hostile — some  of 
them  will  feel  like  pulling  the  White  Mother's  nose. 
But  Standing  Bear  has  got  sense  and  he  promised 
me  when  we  were  made  blood  brothers  that  his 
whole  tribe  was  pledged  to  me.  I'm  going  down  to 
collect — do  you  see,  Fitz?" 

They  were  riding  in  to  town  now,  and  FitzHer- 
bert  made  another  plea :  "Let  me  go  with  you,  Bull- 
dog. I'm  petrified  with  fanning  the  air  with  my 
eyes,  and  nothing  doing.  I  sit  here  in  this  damned 
village  watching  the  west  wind  blow  the  boulders 
up  the  street,  and  the  east  wind  blow  them  back 
again,  till  they're  worn  to  the  size  of  golf  balls. 
I'm  atrophied;  my  insides  are  like  an  enamelled  pot 
from  the  damned  alkaline  dust." 

"Sorry,  my  dear  boy,  but  I  know  what  would  hap- 
pen if  you  went  with  me.  While  I'd  be  holding  a 
pow-wow  with  Standing  Bear  one  of  those  boozed 
Stonies  would  spit  in  your  eye,  and  you'd  knock  him 
down;  then  hell  would  break  loose." 

"You're  generally  right,  Bulldog,  mister  some- 
man;  none  of  us  have  got  the  cool  courage  you  ve 


290  BULLDOG  CARNEY 

got.  I  guess  it's  rather  fmoral  cowardice.  I've 
seen  you  stand  more  abuse  than  a  mule-skinner  gives 
his  mule  and  not  lose  caste  over  it."  He  held  out 
his  big  hand,  saying:  "Good  luck,  old  boy !  I  rather 
fancy  Standing  Bear  will  be  back  on  his  reserve  or 
this  will  be  good-bye." 

It  was  dark  when  Carney  rode  out  of  Fort  Cal- 
bert  heading  for  the  heavy  gloomed  line  of  the 
Vermillions.  The  little  buckskin  pricked  his  ears, 
threw  up  his  head  with  a  playful  clamp  at  the  bit, 
and  broke  into  a  long  graceful  lope;  beneath  them 
the  chocolate  trail  swam  by  like  shadow  chasing 
shadow  over  a  mirror.  A  red-faced  moon  that  had 
come  peeping  over  Fort  Calbert,  followed  the  rider, 
traversing  the  blue  upturned  prairie  above,  as  if  it, 
too,  hurried  to  rebuke  with  its  silent  serenity  the  tur- 
bulent ones  in  the  foothills.  It  cast  a  mystic,  sleepy 
haze  over  the  plain  that  lay  in  restful  lethargy, 
bathed  in  an  atmosphere  so  peaceful  that  Carney's 
mission  seemed  but  the  promptings  of  a  phantas- 
magoria. There  was  a  pungent,  acrid  taint  of  burn- 
ing grass  in  the  sleepy  air,  and  off  to  the  south  glinted 
against  the  horizon  the  peeping  red  eyes  of  a  prairie 
fire.  They  were  like  the  rimmed  lights  of  a  shore- 
held  city. 

The  way  was  always  uphill,  the  low  unperceived 
grade  of  the  prairie  uplifting  so  gradually  to  the 
foothills,  and  the  buckskin,  as  if  his  instinct  told  him 
that  their  way  was  long,  broke  his  lope  into  the  easy 
suffling  pace  of  a  cayuse. 

Carney,  roused  from  the  reverie  into  which  the 


EVIL  SPIRITS  291 

somnolence  of  the  gentle  night  had  cast  him,  patted 
the  slim  neck  approvingly.  Then  his  mind  slipped 
back  into  a  fairy  boat  that  ferried  it  across  leagues 
of  ocean  to  the  land  of  green  hills  and  oak-hidden 
castles. 

Something  of  the  squalid  endeavor  ahead  bred  in 
his  mind  a  distaste  for  his  life  of  adventure.  Was 
it  good  enough?  Danger,  the  pitting  of  his  wits 
against  other  wits,  carried  a  savor  of  excitement 
that  was  better  than  remembering.  The  foolish 
past  could  only  be  kept  in  oblivion  by  action,  by 
strain,  by  danger,  by  adventure,  by  winning  out 
against  odds ;  but  the  thing  ahead — drunken,  brawl- 
ing lumberjacks,  and  Indians  thrust  back  into  primi- 
tive savagery  because  of  him,  put  in  his  soul  a  taste 
of  the  ashes  of  regret. 

Even  the  test  he  was  going  to  put  himself  to  was 
not  enough  to  deaden  this  suddenly  awakened  re- 
morse. To  the  blond  giant  he  had  minimized  the 
danger,  the  prospect  of  conflict,  but  he  knew  that 
he  was  playing  a  game  with  Fate  that  the  roll  of  the 
dice  would  decide.  He  was  going  to  pit  himself 
against  the  young  bucks  of  the  Stonies.  They  were 
an  offshoot  of  the  Sioux;  in  their  veins  ran  fighting 
blood,  the  blood  of  killers;  and  inflamed  by  liquor  the 
blood  would  be  the  blood  of  ghazis.  It  would  all 
depend  upon  Standing  Bear,  for  Carney  could  not 
quit,  could  not  weaken;  he  must  turn  them  back  from 
the  valley  of  the  Vermillion,  or  remain  there  with 
his  face  upturned  to  the  sky,  and  his  soul  seeking 
the  Ferryman  at  the  crossing  of  the  Styx. 


292  BULLDOG  CARNEY 

He  had  ridden  three  hours,  scarce  conscious  of 
anything  but  the  mental  traverse,  when  the  palpi- 
tating beat  of  hoofs  pounding  the  drum-like  turf 
fell  upon  his  ears.  From  far  down  the  trail  to  the 
west  came  a  sound  that  was  like  the  drum  of  a 
mating  pheasant's  wings. 

The  trail  he  rode  dipped  into  a  little  hollow. 
Here  he  slipped  from  the  saddle,  led  the  buckskin 
to  one  side,  and  dropped  the  bridle  rein  over  his 
head.  Then  he  took  a  newspaper  from  his  pocket, 
canopied  it  into  a  little  gray  mound  on  the  trail, 
and,  drawing  his  gun,  stepped  five  paces  to  one  side 
and  waited.  All  this  precaution  was  that  he  might 
hold  converse  with  the  galloping  horseman  without 
the  startling  semblance  of  a  hold-up;  sometimes  the 
too  abrupt  command  to  halt  meant  a  pistol  shot. 

As  the  pound  of  the  hoofs  neared,  the  rhythmic 
cadence  separated  into  staccato  beats  of,  upit-a-pat, 
pit-a-pat,  pit-a-pat,"  and  Carney  muttered:  "Rather 
like  a  drunken  nichie;  he's  riding  hell-bent-for- 
leather." 

Now  the  racing  horseman  was  close;  now  he 
loomed  against  the  sky  as  he  topped  the  farther  bank. 
Half-way  down  the  dipping  trail  the  cayuse  saw 
the  paper  mound,  and  with  his  prairie  bred  instinct 
took  it  for  a  crouching  wolf.  With  a  squealing 
snort  he  swerved,  propped,  and  his  rider,  in  search 
of  equilibrium,  shot  over  his  head.  As  he  staggered 
to  his  feet  a  strong  hand  was  on  his  arm,  and  a 
disagreeable  cold  circle  of  steel  was  touching  his 
cheek. 


EVIL  SPIRITS  093 

"By  gar!"  the  frightened  traveller  cried  aghast, 
"don't  s'oot  me." 

Carney  laughed,  and  lowering  his  gun,  said: 
"Certainly  not,  boy — just  a  precaution,  that's  all. 
Where  are  you  going?" 

"I'm  goin'  to  de  Fort,  me,"  the  French  half- 
breed  replied.  "De  Stoney  nichies  an'  de  lumber- 
jacks is  raise  hell;  by  gar!  dere's  fine  row;  dey  s'oot 
de  Sergeant,  Jerry  Platt." 

"Where?" 

"Jus'  by  Yellowstone  Creek,  De  Stonies  pitch  dere 
tepees  dere." 

"Where's  the  Sergeant?" 

"I  don't  know  me.  He  get  de  bullet  in  de  shoul* 
der,  but  he  swear  by  le  bon  Dieu  dat  he'll  get  hes 
man,  an'  mak'  de  Injun  go  back  to  hees  reserve. 
He's  hell  of  brave  mans,  dat  Jerry." 

"All  right,  boy,"  Carney  said;  "you  ride  on  to  the 
Fort  and  tell  the  Superintendent  that  Bulldog  Car- 
ney  " 

"Sacre!  Bulldog  Carney?"  The  poor  breed 
gasped  the  words  much  as  if  the  Devil  had  clapped 
him  on  a  shoulder. 

"Yes;  tell  him  that  Bulldog  Carney  has  gone  to 
help  Jerry  Platt  put  the  fear  of  God  into  those 
drunken  bums.  Now  pull  out." 

The  breed,  who  had  clung  to  the  bridle  rein, 
mounted  his  cayuse,  crying,  as  he  clattered  away: 
"May  de  Holy  Mudder  give  you  de  help,  Bulldog, 
dat's  me,  Ba'tiste,  wish  dat." 


294  BULLDOG  CARNEY 

Then  Carney  swung  to  the  back  of  the  little  buck- 
skin, and  pushed  on  to  the  help  of  Jerry  Platt. 

Dozing  in  the  saddle  he  rode  while  the  gallant 
horse  ate  up  mile  after  mile  in  that  steady,  shuffling 
trot  he  had  learned  from  his  cold-blooded  broth- 
ers of  the  plains.  The  grade  was  now  steeper;  they 
were  approaching  the  foothills  that  rose  at  first  in 
undulating  mounds  like  a  heavy  ground  swell; 
then  the  ridges  commenced  to  take  shape  against 
the  sky  line,  looking  like  the  escarpments  of  a  fort. 

The  trail  Carney  followed  wound,  as  he  knew,  into 
the  Vermillion  Valley,  at  the  upper  end  of  which, 
near  the  gap,  the  Indians  were  encamped  on  Yel- 
lowstone Creek. 

The  Indians'  clock,  the  long-handled  dipper,  had 
swung  around  the  North  Star  off  to  Carney's  right, 
and  he  had  tabulated  the  hours  by  its  sweep.  It 
was  near  morning  he  knew,  for  the  handle  was 
climbing  up  in  the  east. 

Then,  faintly  at  first,  there  carried  to  his  ears 
the  droning  "tump-tump,  tump-tump,  tump-tump, 
tump-tump!"  of  a  tom-tom,  punctuated  at  intervals 
by  a  shrill,  high-pitched  sing-song  of  "Hi-yi,  hi-yi, 
hi-yi,  hi-yi  1" 

Carney  pulled  his  buckskin  to  a  halt,  his  trained 
ear  interpreted  the  well-known  time  that  was  beaten 
from  the  tom-tom — it  was  the  gambling  note.  That 
was  the  Indians  all  over;  when  drunk  to  squat  on 
the  ground  in  a  circle,  a  blanket  between  them  to 
hide  the  guessing  bean,  and  one  of  their  number 
beating  an  exciting  tattoo  from  a  skin-covered  hoop, 


EVIL  SPIRITS  295 

ceasing  his  flagellation  at  times  to  tighten  the  sag- 
ging skin  by  the  heat  of  a  fire. 

Carney  slipped  from  the  buckskin's  back,  stripped 
the  saddle  off,  picketed  the  horse,  and  stretched 
himself  on  the  turf,  muttering,  as  he  drifted  into 
quick  slumber:  "The  cold  gray  light  of  morning 
is  the  birth  time  of  the  yellow  streak — I'll  tackle 
them  then." 

The  sun  was  flicking  the  upper  benches  of  the 
Vermillion  Range  when  Carney  opened  his  eyes. 
He  sat  up  and  watched  the  golden  light  leap  down 
the  mountain  side  from  crag  to  crag  as  the  fount  of 
all  this  liquid  gold  climbed  majestically  the  eastern 
sky.  As  he  stood  up  the  buckskin  canted  to  his  feet. 
Bulldog  laid  his  cheek  against  the  soft  mouse-colored 
nose,  and  said:  "Patsy,  old  boy,  it's  business  first 
this  morning — we'll  eat  afterwards;  though  you've 
had  a  fair  snack  of  this  jolly  buffalo  grass,  I  see  from 
your  tummy." 

The  tom-tom  was  still  troubling  the  morning  air, 
and  the  crackle  of  two  or  three  gunshots  came  down 
the  valley. 

As  Carney  saddled  the  buckskin  he  tried  to  formu- 
late a  plan.  There  was  nothing  to  plan  about;  he 
had  no  clue  to  where  he  might  find  Platt — that  part 
of  it  was  all  chance.  Failing  to  locate  the  Sergeant 
he  must  go  on  and  play  his  hand  alone  against  the 
Stonies. 

As  he  rode,  the  trail  wound  along  the  flat  bank  of 
a  little  lake  that  was  like  an  oval  torquoise  set  in 
platinum  and  dull  gold.  Beyond  it  skirted  the  lake's 


296  BULLDOG  CARNEY 

feeder,  a  rippling  stream  that  threw  cascades  of 
pearl  tints  and  sapphire  as  it  splashed  over  and 
against  the  stubborn  rocks.  From  beyond,  on  the 
far  side,  floated  down  from  green  fir-clad  slopes 
the  haunting  melody  of  a  French-Canadian  song. 
It  was  like  riding  into  a  valley  of  peace;  and  just 
over  a  jutting  point  was  the  droning  tom-toms.  As 
Carney  rounded  the  bend  in  the  trail  he  could  see 
the  smoke-stained  tepees  of  the  Stonies. 

At  that  instant  the  valley  was  filled  with  the  vocal 
turmoil  of  yelping,  snarling  dogs — the  pack-dogs 
of  the  Indians. 

At  first  Carney  thought  that  he  was  the  incentive 
to  this  demonstration;  but  a  quick  searching  look 
discovered  a  khaki-clad  figure  on  a  bay  police  horse, 
taking  a  ford  of  the  shallow  stream.  It  was  Ser- 
geant Jerry  Platt,  all  alone,  save  for  a  half-breed 
scout  that  trailed  behind. 

Pandemonium  broke  loose  in  the  Indian  encamp- 
ment. Half-naked  bucks  swarmed  in  and  out  among 
the  tepees  like  rabbits  in  a  muskeg;  some  of  them, 
still  groggy,  pitched  headlong  over  a  root,  or  a 
stone.  Many  of  them  raced  for  their  hobbled 
ponies,  and  clambered  to  their  backs.  Two  or  three 
had  rushed  from  their  tepees,  Winchester  in  hand, 
and  when  they  saw  the  policeman  banged  at  the  un- 
offending sky  in  the  way  of  bravado. 

Carney  shook  up  his  mount,  and  at  a  smart  can- 
ter reached  the  Sergeant  just  as  his  horse  came  up 
to  the  level  of  the  trail,  fifty  yards  short  of  the 
camp. 


EVIL  SPIRITS  097 

Platt's  shoulder  had  been  roughly  bandaged  by 
the  guide,  and  his  left  arm  was  bound  across  his 
chest  in  the  way  of  a  sling.  The  Sergeant's  face, 
that  yesterday  had  been  the  genial  merry  face  of 
Jerry,  was  drawn  and  haggard;  grim  determination 
had  buried  the  boyishness  that  many  had  said  would 
never  leave  him.  His  blue  eyes  warmed  out  of  their 
cold,  tired  fixity,  and  his  voice  essayed  some  of  the 
old-time  recklessness,  as  he  called :  "Hello,  Bulldog. 
What  in  the  name  of  lost  mavericks  are  you  doing 
here — collecting?" 

"Came  to  give  you  a  hand,  Jerry." 

"A  hand,  Bulldog?" 

"That's  the  palaver,  Jerry.  Somebody  ran  me 
in  the  news  of  this" — he  swept  an  arm  toward  the 
tepees — "and  I've  ridden  all  night  to  help  bust  this 
hellery.  Heard  on  the  trail  you'd  got  pinked." 

"Not  much — just  through  the  flesh.  A  couple  of 
drunken  lumberjacks  potted  me  from  cover.  I've 
been  over  at  the  Company's  shacks,  but  I'm  pretty 
sure  they've  taken  cover  with  the  Indians.  I'll  get 
them  if  they're  here.  But  I've  got  to  herd  these 
bronco-headed  bucks  back  to  the  reserve." 

"They'll  put  up  an  argument,  Sergeant." 

"I  expect  it;  but  it's  got  to  be  done.  They'll  go 
back,  or  Corporal  McBane  will  get  a  promotion — 
he's  next  in  line  to  Jerry  Platt." 

"Good  stuff,  Jerry,  I'll " 

"Pss-s-ing!" 

Bulldog's  statement  of  what  he  would  do  was  cut 
short  by  the  whining  moan  of  a  bullet  cutting  the 


298  BULLDOG  CARNEY 

air  above  their  heads.  A  little  cloud  of  white  smoke 
was  spiraling  up  from  the  door  of  a  teepee. 

"That's  bluff,"  Jerry  grunted. 

"We've  got  to  move  in,  Jerry — if  we  hesitate, 
after  that,  they'll  buzz  like  flies.  If  you  start  kick- 
ing an  Indian  off  the  lot  keep  him  moving.  I'm  un- 
der your  command;  I've  sworn  myself  in,  a  special; 
but  I  know  Standing  Bear  well,  and  if  you'll  allow 
it,  I'll  make  a  pow-wow.  But  I'm  in  it  to  the  fin- 
ish, boy." 

"Thanks,  Bulldog" — they  were  moving  along  at 
a  steady  walk  of  the  horses  toward  the  tepees — 
"but  you  know  our  way — you've  got  to  stand  a  lot  of 
dirt;  if  you  don't,  Bulldog,  and  start  anything,  you'll 
make  me  wish  you  hadn't  come.  It's  better  to  get 
wiped  out  than  be  known  as  having  lost  our  heads. 
D'you  get  it?" 

"I'm  on,  Jerry." 

Carney  knew  Standing  Bear's  tepee;  it  was  larger 
than  the  others ;  on  its  moose-skin  cover  was  painted 
his  caste  mark,  something  meant  to  represent  a  huge- 
toothed  grizzly. 

But  everything  animate  in  the  camp  was  now  fo- 
cused on  their  advent.  The  old  men  of  wisdom, 
the  half-naked  bucks,  squaws,  dogs,  ponies — it  was 
a  shifting,  interminably  twisting  kaleidoscope  of 
gaudy,  draggled,  vociferous  creatures. 

A  little  dry  laugh  issued  from  Jerry's  lips,  and  he 
grunted:  "Some  circus,  Bulldog.  Keep  an  eye 
skinned  that  those  two  skulking  Frenchmen  don't 
slip  from  a  tepee." 


EVIL  SPIRITS  099 

Standing  Bear  stood  in  front  of  his  tepee.  He 
was  a  big  fine-looking  Indian.  Over  his  strong 
Sioux-like  features  hovered  a  half-drunken  gravity. 
In  one  hand  he  held  an  eagle's  wing,  token  of  chief- 
tainship, and  the  other  hand  rested  suggestively 
upon  the  butt  of  a  .45  revolver. 

Carney  knew  enough  Stoney  to  make  himself  un- 
derstood, for  he  had  hunted  much  with  the  tribe. 

"Ho,  Chief  of  the  mighty  hunters,"  he  greeted. 

"Why  does  the  Redcoat  come?"  and  Standing 
Bear  indicated  the  Sergeant  with  a  sweep  of  the 
eagle  wing. 

"We  come  as  friends  to  Chief  Standing  Bear," 
Carney  answered. 

"Huh !  the  talk  is  good.  The  trail  is  open :  now 
you  may  pass." 

"Not  so,  Chief,"  Carney  answered  softly.  "Harm 
has  been  done.  Two  white  men,  with  evil  in  their 
hearts  against  the  police  of  the  Great  White  Mother, 
whose  children  the  Stonies  are,  have  wounded  one 
of  her  Redcoat  soldiers ;  and  also  the  White  Mother 
has  sent  a  message  by  her  Redcoat  that  Standing 
Bear  is  to  take  his  braves  back  to  the  reserve." 

At  this  the  bucks,  who  had  been  listening  impa- 
tiently, broke  into  a  clamor  of  defiance;  the  high- 
pitched  battle-cry  of  "hi-yi,  yi-yi,  yi-hil"  rose  from 
fifty  throats.  The  mounted  braves  swirled  their 
ponies,  driving  them  with  quirt  and  heel  in  a  mad 
pony  war-dance.  Half-a-dozen  times  the  lean  rac- 
ing cayuses  bumped  into  the  mounts  of  the  two  white 
men. 


1300  BULLDOG  CARNEY 

I, 

Running  Antelope,  a  Stoney  whose  always  evil 

face  had  been  made  horrible  by  the  sweep  of  a  bear's 
claws,  raced  his  pony,  chest  on,  against  the  buck- 
skin, thrust  his  ugly  visage  almost  into  Carney's 
face,  and  spat. 

Bulldog  wiped  it  off  with  the  barrel  of  his  gun, 
then  dropped  the  gun  back  into  its  holster,  saying 
quietly:  "Some  day,  Running  Antelope,  I'll  cover 
that  stain  with  your  blood." 

The  Sergeant  sat  as  stolid  as  a  bronze  statue. 

The  squaws  stood  in  groups,  either  side  the  Chief's 
tepee,  and  hurled  foul  epithets  at  the  two  white  men. 
Little  copper-skinned  imps  threw  handfuls  of  sand, 
and  gravel,  and  bits  of  turf. 

The  dogs  howled  and  snapped  as  they  sulked 
amongst  their  red  masters. 

"We  will  not  go  back  to  the  reserve,  Bulldog,'* 
the  Chief  said  with  solemn  dignity,  and  held  the 
eagle  wing  above  his  head;  "it  is  the  time  of  our  hunt, 
and  a  new  treaty  has  been  made  that  we  go  to  the 
hunt  when  the  payment  is  made.  Of  the  two  pale 
faces  that  have  done  evil  I  know  not." 

"They  are  here  in  the  tepees,"  Bulldog  declared. 

"The  tepees  are  the  homes  of  my  tribe,  and  what 
is  there  is  there.  Go  back  while  the  trail  is  open, 
Bulldog,  you  and  the  Redcoat;  my  braves  may  do 
harm  if  you  remain." 

"Chief,  we  are  blood  brothers — was  it  not  so 
spoken?" 

"Standing  Bear  has  said  that  it  is  so,  Bulldog." 

"And  Standing  Bear  said  that  when  his  white 


EVIL  SPIRITS  301 

brother  asked  a  gift  Standing  Bear  would  hear  the 
words  of  his  brother." 

"Standing  Bear  said  that,  Bulldog." 

"Then,  Chief,  Bulldog  asks  the  favor,  not  for  him- 
self, but  for  the  good  of  Standing  Bear  and  his 
Braves." 

"What  asks  the  Bulldog  of  Standing  Bear?" 

"That  he  give  into  the  hand  of  the  White 
Mother's  Redcoat  the  two  moneas,  the  Frenchmen ; 
and  that  he  strike  the  tepees  and  command  the 
squaws  to  load  them  on  the  travois,  and  lead  the 
braves  back  to  the  reserve." 

Running  Antelope  pushed  himself  between  Carney 
and  the  Chief,  and  in  rapid,  fierce  language  de- 
nounced this  request  to  Standing  Bear. 

A  ringing  whoop  of  approval  from  the  bucks 
greeted  Antelope's  harrangue. 

"My  braves  will  not  go  back  to  the  reserve,  Bull- 
dog," the  Chief  declared. 

"Is  Standing  Bear  Chief  of  the  Stonies?"  Carney 
asked;  "or  is  he  an  old  outcast  buffalo  bull — and 
does  the  herd  follow  Running  Antelope?" 

The  Chief's  face  twisted  with  the  shock  of  this 
thrust,  and  Running  Antelope  scowled  and  flashed 
a  hunting  knife  from  his  belt. 

"If  Standing  Bear  is  Chief  of  the  Stonies,  the 
White  Mother's  Redcoat  asks  him  to  deliver  the 
two  evil  moneas,"  Carney  added. 

Standing  Bear  seemed  to  waver;  his  yellow- 
streaked  black-pointed  eyes  swept  back  and  forth 


302  BULLDOG  CARNEY 

from  the  faces  of  the  white  men  to  the  faces  of  the 
braves. 

In  a  few  rapid  words  Carney  explained  to  Ser- 
geant Platt  the  situation,  saying:  "Now  is  the  test, 
Jerry.  We've  got  to  act.  I've  a  hunch  the  two 
men  you  want  are  in  that  old  blackguard's  tepee. 
Shall  I  carry  out  something  I  mean  to  do?" 

"Don't  strike  an  Indian,  Bulldog;  don't  wound 
one:  anything  else  goes.  If  they  start  shooting, 
go  to  it — then  we'll  fight  to  the  finish." 

The  Sergeant  pulled  out  his  watch,  saying:  "Give 
them  five  minutes  to  strike  the  tepees,  that  may  cow 
them.  We've  got  to  keep  going." 

Standing  Bear  saw  the  watch,  and  asked: 
"What  medicine  does  the  Redcoat  make?" 

Carney  explained  that  the  Sergeant  gave  him  five 
minutes  to  strike  his  tepee  as  a  sign  to  the  others. 

And  if  Standing  Bear  says  that  talk  is  not  good 
talk,  that  a  Chief  of  the  Stonies  is  not  a  dog  to  be 
driven  from  his  hunting,  what  will  the  Redcoat  do?" 
the  Chief  asked  haughtily. 

But  Carney  simply  answered:  "Bulldog  is  the 
friend  of  Standing  Bear,  his  blood  brother,  but  at 
the  end  of  five  minutes  Bulldog  and  the  White  Moth- 
er's soldier  will  lead  the  Stonies  back  to  the  reserve." 

A  quiet  followed  this;  the  dreadful  heaviness  of 
a  sudden  stilling  of  the  tumult,  for  the  Chief,  rais- 
ing his  eagle  wing,  had  commanded  silence. 

"Standing  Bear  will  wait  to  see  the  medicine  mak- 
ing of  the  Redcoat,"  he  said  to  Carney. 

One  minute,   two  minutes,  three  minutes,   four 


EVIL  SPIRITS  303 

minutes;  the  two  men  sat  their  horses  facing  the  sul- 
len redskins.  A  thrilling  exhilaration  was  tingling 
the  nerves  of  Carney;  a  test  such  as  this  lifted  him. 
And  Jerry,  as  brave  as  Bulldog,  sat  throned  on  his 
duty,  waiting,  patient— but  it  must  be. 

"The  five  minutes  are  up,"  he  said,  quietly. 
Carney  seemed  toying  with  his  lariat  idly  as  he 
answered:     "Put  your  watch  back  in  your  pocket, 
Jerry,  and  command,  in  the  Queen's  name,  Standing 
Bear  to  strike  his  tepee.     The  authority  game,  old 
boy.     I'll  interpret,  and  if  he  doesn't  obey  I'm  go- 
ing  to  pull  his  shack  down.     Does  that  go?" 
"It  does,  and  the  Lord  be  with  us." 
Jerry  dropped  the  watch  dramatically  into  his 
pocket,  raised  his  voice  in  solemn  declamation,  and 
Carney  interpreted  the  command. 

The  Chief  seemed  to  waver;  his  eyes  were  shifty, 
like  the  eyes  of  a  wolf  that  hesitates  between  a 
charge  and  a  skulk-away. 

"Speak,"  Carney  commanded:  "tell  your  braves 
to  strike  their  tepees." 

"Go  back  on  the  trail,  Bulldog." 

Standing  Bear's  words  were  cut  short  by  the  zipp 

of  a  rope;   from   Carney's   right  hand  the  lariat 

floated  up  like  the  loosening  coils  of  a  snake;  the 

noose  settled  down  over  the  key-pole,  and  at  a  pull 

of  the  rein  the  little  buckskin  raced  backward,  and 

the  tepee  collapsed  to  earth  like  a  pricked  balloon. 

This  extraordinary,  unlooked-for  event  had  the 

effect  of  a  sudden  vivid  shaft  of  lightning  from  out 

a  troubled  sky.     Half  paralyzed  the  Indians  stood  in 


304  BULLDOG  CARNEY 

gasping  suspense,  and  into  the  Chief's  clever  brain 
flashed  the  knowledge  that  all  his  bluff  had  failed, 
that  he  must  yield  or  take  the  awful  consequence  of 
thrusting  his  little  tribe  into  a  war  with  the  great 
nation  of  the  palefaces ;  he  must  yield  or  kill,  and  to 
kill  a  Redcoat  on  duty,  or  even  Bulldog,  a  paleface 
who  had  not  struck  a  tribesman,  meant  the  dreaded 
punishment  of  hanging. 

The  god  of  chance  took  the  matter  out  of  his 
hands. 

From  the  entangling  folds  of  the  skin  tepee  two 
swarthy,  flannel-shirted  white  men  wriggled  like 
badgers  escaping  from  a  hole,  and  stood  up  gazing 
about  in  bewilderment.  One  of  them  had  drawn  a 
gun,  and  in  the  hand  of  the  other  was  a  vicious 
knife. 

Sergeant  Jerry  drew  a  pair  of  handcuffs  from  a 
pocket,  and  pushed  his  bay  forward  to  cut  off  the 
retreat  of  the  Frenchmen,  commanding:  "You  are 
under  arrest — hands  up!" 

As  he  spoke,  with  an  ugly  oath  the  man  with  the 
gun  fired.  The  report  was  echoed  by  the  crack  of 
Carney's  gun  and  the  Frenchman's  hand  dropped  to 
his  side,  his  pistol  clattering  to  earth. 

Sergeant  Jerry  threw  the  handcuffs  to  the  man 
with  the  knife,  saying,  sharply:  "Shackle  yourself 
by  the  right  wrist  to  the  left  wrist  of  your  com- 
panion." 

The  man  hesitated,  sweeping  with  his  vicious  eyes 
the  band  of  cowed  Indians. 

One  look  at  the  gun  in  Carney's  hands  and  mutter- 


EVIL  SPIRITS  305 

ing:  "Sacre!  dem  damn  Injuns  is  coward  dogs!"  he 
picked  up  the  chained  rings  and  snapped  them  on 
his  mate's  wrists  and  his  own. 

Carney  turned  to  Standing  Bear,  who  stood  petri- 
fied by  the  rapidity  of  events. 

"Chief,"  he  said,  "with  these  white  outcasts  the 
way  is  different,  they  are  evil;  the  Indians  are  chil- 
dren of  the  White  Mother." 

The  wily  old  Chief  quickly  repudiated  the  two 
Frenchmen;  he  could  see  that  the  policeman  and 
Bulldog  were  not  to  be  bluffed. 

"If  the  two  moneas  have  broken  the  law,  take 
them,"  he  said  magnanimously;  "but  tell  the  Redcoat 
that  Standing  Bear  and  his  tribe  will  go  from  here 
up  into  the  hills  for  the  hunt,  for  to  return  to  the 
reserve  would  bring  hunger  to  the  Stonies  when  the 
white  rain  lies  on  the  ground.  Ask  the  Redcoat  to 
say  that  this  is  good,  that  we  may  go  quickly,  and 
the  evil  be  at  an  end." 

Carney  conveyed  this  to  Jerry.  It  was  perhaps 
the  better  way,  he  advised,  for  the  breaking  up 
of  the  hunt,  during  which  they  laid  in  a  stock  of 
meat  for  the  winter,  and  skins  and  furs,  would  be 
~  distinct  hardship. 

"You  can  take  the  prisoners  in,  Sergeant,"  Car- 
ney  said,  "and  I'll  stay  with  Standing  Bear  till 
they're  up  in  the  mountains  away  from  the  lumber- 
jacks." M 

"They  must  destroy  any  whisky  they  have,    Jerry 

declared. 

This  the  Chief  agreed  to  do. 


306  BULLDOG  CARNEY 

In  half  an  hour  the  tepees  were  all  down,  packed 
on  the  poled  travois,  blankets  and  bundles  were 
strapped  to  the  backs  of  the  dogs,  and  in  a  strug- 
gling line  the  Stonies  were  heading  for  the  hills. 

Toward  the  east  the  two  Frenchmen,  linked  to- 
gether, plodded  sullenly  over  the  trail,  and  behind 
them  rode  Sergeant  Jerry  and  his  half-breed  scout. 


ZANE  GREY'S  NOVELS 

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THE  LIGHT  OF  WESTERN  STARS 

A  New  York  society  girl  buys  a  ranch  which  becomes  the  center  of  frontier  war- 
fare. Her  loyal  superintendent  rescues  her  when  she  is  captured  by  bandits.  A 
surprising  climax  brings  the  story  to  a  delightful  dose. 

THE  RAINBOW  TRAIL 

The  story  of  a  youngr  clergyman  who  becomes  a  wanderer  in  the  treat  western 
uplands— until  at  last  love  and  faith  awake. 

DESERT  GOLD 

The  ttory describes  the  recent  uprising:  alone:  the  bonier,  and  ends  with  the  finding: 
of  the  gold  which  two  prospectors  had  willed  to  the  girl  who  is  tue  story's  heroine. 

RIDERS  OF  THE  PURPLE  SAGE 

A  picturesque  romance  of  Utah  of  some  forty  years  ago  when  Mormon  authority 
ruled.  The  prosecution  of  Jane  Withersteen  is  the  theme  of  the  ttory. 

THE  LAST  OF  THE  PLAINSMEN 

This  is  the  record  of  a  trip  which  the  author  took  with  Buffalo  Jones,  known  as  the 
preserver  of  the  American  bison,  across  the  Arizona  desert  and  of  a  hunt  in  "that 
wonderful  country  of  deep  canons  and  giant  pines." 

THE  HERITAGE  OF  THE  DESERT 

A  lovely  girl,  who  has  been  reared  among  Mormons,  learnt  to  love  a  young  New 
Englander.    The  Mormon  religion,  however,  demands  that  the  girl  shall  becore 
the  second  wife  of  one  of  the  Mormons— Well,  that's  the  problem  of  this  great  story. 

THE  SHORT  STOP 

The  youngr  hero,  tiring  of  his  factory  grind,  starts  out  to  win  fame  and  fortune  as 
a  profestional  ball  player.   His  hard  knocks  at  the  start  are  followed  by  tuch  succe 
as  clean  sportsmanship,  courage  and  honesty  ought  to  win. 

BETTY  ZANE 

This  story  tells  of  the  bravery  and  heroism  of  Betty,  the  beautiful  young  sister  of 
old  Colonel  Zane,  one  of  the  bravest  pioneers. 

THE  LONE  STAR  RANGER 

After  killing  a  man  in  self  defense,  Buck  Duane  becomes  an  outlaw  along  the 
Twos  border.    In  a  camp  on  the  Mexican  side  of  the  river,  he  finds  a  young  girl  held 
prisoner,  and  in  attempting  to  rescue  her.  brings  down f  upon  himself  the  wrath i  of  he 
raptors  and  liencelorth  is  hunted  on  one  side  by  honest  men,  on  the  other  by  outlaw*. 

THE  BORDER  LEGION 

THE   LAST  OF  THE  GREAT  SCOUTS. 
By  Helen  Cody  Wetmore  and  Zane  Grey 

"  Buffalo  Bill,"  whose  daring  and  bravery  made  him  tag  out. 

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BOOTH     TARKINGTON'S 
NOVELS 

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SEVENTEEN.    Illustrated  by  Arthur  William  Brown. 

No  one  but  the  creator  of  Penrod  could  have  portrayed 
the  immortal  young  people  of  this  story.  Its  humor  is  irre- 
sistible and  reminiscent  of  the  time  when  the  reader  was 
Seventeen. 

PENROD.    Illustrated  by  Gordon  Grant. 

This  is  a  picture  of  a  boy's  heart,  full  of  the  lovable,  hu- 
morous, tragic  things  which  are  locked  secrets  to  most  older 
folks.  It  is  a  finished,  exquisite  work. 

PENROD  AND  SAM.  Illustrated  by  Worth  Brehm. 

Like  "  Penrod "  and  "  Seventeen,"  this  book  contains 
some  remarkable  phases  of  real  boyhood  and  some  of  the  best 
stories  of  juvenile  prankishness  that  have  ever  been  written. 

THE  TURMOIL.    Illustrated  by  C.  E.  Chambers. 

Bibbs  Sheridan  is  a  dreamy,  imaginative  youth,  who  re- 
volts against  his  father's  plans  for  him  to  be  a  servitor  of 
big  business.  The  love  of  a  fine  girl  turns  Bibb's  life  from 
failure  to  success. 

THE  GENTLEMAN  FROM  INDIANA.    Frontispiece. 

A  story  of  love  and  politics, — more  especially  a  picture  of 
a  country  editor's  life  in  Indiana,  but  the  charm  of  the  book 
lies  in  the  love  interest. 

THE  FLIRT.    Illustrated  by  Clarence  F.  Underwood. 

The  "  Flirt,"  the  younger  of  two  sisters,  breaks  one  girl 'a 
engagement,  drives  one  man  to  suicide,  causes  the  murder 
of  another,  leads  another  to  lose  his  fortune,  and  in  the  end 
marries  a  stupid  and  unpromising  suitor,  leaving  the  really 
worthy  one  to  marry  her  sister. 

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STORIES  OF  RARE  CHARM  BY 

GENE   STRATTON-PORTER 


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MICHAEL  O'HALLORAN,      Illustrated  by  Frances  Rogers- 

Michael  is  a  quick-witted  little  Irish  newsboy,  living  in  Northern 
Indiana.     He  adopts  a  deserted  little  girl,  a  cripple.    He  also  as- 
sumes the  responsibility  of  leading  the  entire  rural  community  up- 
ward and  onward, 
LADDIE.      Illustrated  by  Herman  Pfeifer. 

This  is  a  bright,  cheery  tale  with  the  scenes  laid  in  Indiana.  The 
story  is  told  by  Little  Sister,  the  youngest  member  of  a  large  family, 
but  it  is  concerned  not  so  much  with  childish  doings  as  with  the  love 
affairs  of  older  members  of  the  family.  Chief  among  them  is  that 
of  Laddie  and  the  Princess,  an  English  girl  who  has  come  to  live  in 
the  neighborhood  and  about  whose  family  there  hangs  a  mystery. 
THE  HARVESTER.  Illustrated  by  W.  L.  Jacobs. 

"  The  Harvester, "  is  a  man  of  the  woods  and  fields,  and  if  the 
book  had  nothing  in  it  but  the  splendid  figure  of  this  man  it  would 
be  notable.     But  when  the  Girl  comes  to  his  ''  Medicine  Woods." 
there  begins  a  romance  of  the  rarest  idyllic  quality. 
FRECKLES.      Illustrated. 

Freckles  is  a  nameless  waif  when  the  tale  opens,  but  the  way  in 
which  he  takes  hold  of  life  ;  the  nature  friendships  he  forms  in  the 
great  Limberlost  Swamp  ;  the  manner  in  which  everyone  who  meets 
him  succumbs  to  the  charm  of  his  engaging  personality  ;  and  hi» 
love-story  with  "  The  Angel "  are  full  of  real  sentiment, 
A  GIRL  OF  THE  LIMBERLOST.  ^Illustrated. 

The  story  of  a  girl  of  the  Michigan  woods ;  a  buoyant,  loveable 
type  of  the  self-reliant  American.  Her  philosophy  is  one  of  love  and 
kindness  towards  all  things  ;  her  hope  is  never  dimmed.  And  by 
the  sheer  beauty  of  her  soul,  and  the  purity  of  her  vision,  she  wins 
barren  and  unpromising  surroundings  those  rewards  of  high  courage. 
AT  THE  FOOT  OF  THE  RAINBOW.  Illustrations  in  colors. 

The  scene  of  this  charming  love  story  is  laid  in  Central  Indiana. 
The  story  is  one  of  devoted  friendship,  and  tender  self-sacn 
love.     The  novel  is  brimful  of  the  most  beautiful  word  painting  o 
nature,  and  its  pathos  and  tender  sentiment  will  endear 
THE  SONG  OF  THE  CARDINAL.     Profusely  illustrated. 

A  love  ideal  of  the  Cardinal  bird  and  his  mate,  told  with  delicacy 
and  humor. : 

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RALPH    CONNOR'S  STORIES 

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THE  SKY  PILOT  IN  NO  MAN'S  LAND 

The  clean-hearted,  strong-limbed  man  of  the  West  leaves; 
his  hills  and  forests  to  fight  the  battle  for  freedom  in  the' 
old  world. 

BLACK  ROCK 

A  story  of  strong  men  in  the  mountains  of  the  West? 
THE  SKY  PILOT 

A  story  of  cowboy  life,  abounding  in  the  freshest  humar,i 
the  truest  tenderness  and  the  finest  courage. 


A  tale  of  the  foothills  and  of  the  man  who  came  to  them] 
to  lend  a  hand  to  the  lonely  men  and  women  who  needed  a| 
protector. 

THE  MAN  FROM  GLENGARRY 

This  narrative  brings  us  into  contact  with  elemental  and 
volcanic  human  nature  and  with  a  hero  whose  power  breathes 
from  every  word. 

GLENGARRY  SCHOOL  DAYS 

In  this  rough  country  of  Glengarry,  Ralph  Connor  has 
found  human  nature  in  the  rough. 
THE  DOCTOR 

The  story   of  a  "preacher-doctor"  whom  big  men  and 
reckless  men  loved  for  his  unselfish  life  among  them. 
THE  FOREIGNER 

A  tale  of  the  Saskatchewan  and  of  a  "  foreigner "  who 
made  a  brave  and  winning  fight  for  manhood  and  love. 
CORPORAL  CAMERON 

This  splendid  type  of  the  upright,  out-of-door  man  about 
which  Ralph  Connor  builds  all  his  stories,  appears  again  in 
this  book. 

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DANGEROUS  DAYS. 

A  brilliant  story  of  married  life.    A  romance  of  fine  purpose  and 
stirring  appeal. 

THE  AMAZING  INTERLUDE. 

Illustrations  by  The  Kinneys. 

The  story  of  a  great  love  which  cannot  be  pictured—  an  interlude 
—  amazing,  romantic. 

LOVE  STORIES. 

This  book   is  exactly  what  its  title  indicates,  a  collection  of  love 
affairs—  sparkling  with  humor,  tenderness  and  sweetness. 

"K."   Illustrated. 

K    LeMoyne,  famous  surgeon,  goes  to  live  in  a  little  town  where 
beautiful  Sidney  Page  lives.    She  is  in  training  to  become  a  i 
The  joys  and  troubles  of  their  young  love  are  told  with  k> 
sympathetic  appreciation. 

THE  MAN  IN  LOWER  TEN. 
Illustrated  by  Howard  Chandler  Christy. 

An  absorbing  detective  story  woven  around  the  mysterious  d 
of  the  "  Man  in  Lower  Ten." 
WHEN  A  MAN  MARRIES. 
Illustrated  by  Harrison  Fisher  and  Mayo  Bunker. 

A  young  artist,  whose  wife  had  recently  divorced  him   finds  that 
hif  a'unt  i!  soon  to  visit  him.    The  aunt,  who  contributes  to 
family  incom«,  knows  nothing  of  the  domestic  upheaval.    How  tt 
young  man  met  the  situation  is  entertainingly  told. 
THE  CIRCULAR  STAIRCASE.  Illustrated  by  Lester  Ralph. 

The  occupants  of  "Sunnyside  ""  find  the  dead  body  of  Arnold 
Armstrong  on  the  circular  staircase.    Following  the  murder  a  bank 
£llure  °<  ^announced.    Around  these  two  events  u  woven  a  plot  of 
absorbing  interest. 
THE  STREET  OF  SEVEN  STARS.  (Photoplay  Edition.) 

Harmony  Wells,  studying  in  Vienna  to  be  a 


with  world-worn  Dr.  Anna  and 
love  and  slender  means. 

GROSSET  &  DUNLAP,        PUBLISHERS, 


KATHLEEN   NORRIS'  STORIES 

May  be  had  wherever  books  are  sold.        Ask  for  Grosset  &  Dunlap's  list 

SISTERS.   Frontispiece  by  Frank  Street. 

The  California  Redwoods  furnish  the  background  for  this 
beautiful  story  of  sisterly  devotion  and  sacrifice. 

POOR.  DEAR.  MARGARET  KIRBY. 
Frontispiece  by  George  Gibbs. 

A  collection  of  delightful  stories,  including  "Bridging  the 
Years"  and  "The  Tide-Marsh."  This  story  is  now  shown  in 
moving  pictures. 

JOSSELYN'S  WIFE.  Frontispiece  by  C.  Allan  Gilbert. 

The  story  of  a  beautiful  woman  who  fought  a  bitter  fight  for 
happiness  and  love. 

MARTIE,  THE  UNCONQUERED. 
Illustrated  by  Charles  E.  Chambers. 
The  triumph  of  a  dauntless  spirit  over  adverse  conditions. 

THE  HEART  OF  RACHAEL. 
Frontispiece  by  Charles  E.  Chambers. 

An  interesting  story  of  divorce  and  the  problems  that  come 
with  a  second  marriage. 

THE  STORY  OF  JULIA  PAGE. 

Frontispiece  by  C.  Allan  Gilbert. 

,    A  sympathetic  portrayal  of  the  quest  of  a  normal  girl,  obscure 

and  lonely,  for  the  happiness  of  life. 

SATURDAY'S  CHILD.    Frontispiece  by  F.  Graham  Cootes. 

Can  a  girl,  born  in  rather  sordid  conditions,  lift  herself  through 
sheer  determination  to  the  better  things  for  which  her  soul 
hungered  ? 

MOTHER.    Illustrated  by  F.  C.  Yohn. 

A  story  of  the  big  mother  heart  that  beats  in  the  background 
of  every  girl's  life,  and  some  dreams  which  came  true. 

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THE  NOVELS  OF 

LIVINGSTON    HILL 

~~~~~~— — — — — — :^ — 

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THE  BEST  MAN 

Through  a  strange  series  of  adventures  a  young  man  finds 
himself  propelled  up  the  aisle  of  a  church  and  married  to 
strange  girl. 

A  VOICE  IN  THE  WILDERNESS 

On  her  way  West  the  heroine  steps  off  by  mistake  at  a  lonelr 
watertank  into  a  maze  ot  thrilling  events. 

THE  ENCHANTED  bARN 

Every  member  of  the  family  will  enjoy  this  spirited  chronicle 
of  a  young  girl's  resourcefulness  and  pluck,  and  the  secret  of 
the  enchanted"  barn. 

TH-E  WITNESS 

The  fascinating  story  of  the  enormous  change  an  incident 
wrought  in  a  man's  life. 

MARCIA  SCHUYLER 

A  picture  of  ideal  girlhood  set  in  the  time  of  full  skirts  and 
poke  bonnets. 

LO,   MICHAEL  1 

A  story  of  unfailing  appeal  to  all  who  love  and  understand  boys. 
THE  MAN  OF  THE  DESERT 

An  intensely  moving  love  story  of  a  man  of  the  desert  and  a 
girl  of  the  East  pictured  against  the  background  of  the  Far  West 

PHOEBE  DEANE 

A  tense  and  charming  love  story,  told  with  a  grace  and  a  fer- 
vor with  which  only  Mrs.  Lutz  could  tell  it 

DAWN  OF  THE  MORNING 

A  romance  of  the  last  century  with  all  of  its  old-fashioned 
charm.  A  companion  volume  to  "Marcia  Schuylcr"  and 
' '  Phoebe  Deane. ' ' 

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JAMES   OLIVER  CURWOOD'S 

STORIES   OF    ADVENTURE 

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KAZAN 

The  tale  of  a  "  quarter- strain  wolf  and  three-quarters  husky1" 
torn  between  the  call  of  the  human  and  his  wild  mate. 
BAREE,  SON  OF  KAZAN 

The  story  of  the  son  of  the  blind  Grey  Wolf  and  the  gallanr 
part  he  played  in  the  lives  of  a  man  and  a  woman. 
THE  COURAGE  OF  CAPTAIN  PLUM 

'  The  story  of  the  King  of  Beaver  Island,  a  Mormon  colony, 
and  his  battle  with  Captain  Plum. 
THE  DANGER  TRAIL 

A  tale  of  snow,  of  love,  of  Indian  vengeance,  and  a  myst«*f 
of  the  North. 

THE  HUNTED  WOMAN 

~~  A  tale  of  the  ' '  end  of  the  line,"  and  of  a  great  fight  in  ttie 
"valley  of  gold"  for  a  woman. 

THE  FLOWER  OF  THE  NORTH 

The  story  of  Fort  o'  God,  where  the  wild  flavor  of  the  wilder- 
ness is  blended  with  the  courtly  atmosphere  of  France. 
THE  GRIZZLY  KING 

The  story  of  Thor,  the  big  grizzly  who  lived  in  a  valley  where 
man  had  never  come.   , 

ISOBEL 

'A  love  story  of  the  Far  North. 

THE  WOLF  HUNTERS 

A  thrilling  tale  of  adventure  in  the  Canadian  wilderness. 
THE  GOLD  HUNTERS 

The  story  of  adventure  in  the  Hudson  Bay  wilds. 
THE  COURAGE  OF  MARGE  O'DOONE 

Filled  with  exciting  incidents  in  the  land  of  strong  men  and 
women. 

BACK  TO  GOD'S  COUNTRY 

A  thrilling  story  of  the  Far  North.     The  great  Photoplay  was 
made  from  this  book. 

GROSSET  &  DUNLAP,        PUBLISHERS,         NEW  YORK 


NOVELS  OF  FRONTIER  LIFE  BY 

WILLIAM   MACLEOD   RAINE 

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MAVERICKS 

A  tale  of  the  western  frontier,  where  the  "rustler"  abounds.    One  of  the  sweetest 
leve  stories  ever  told. 

A  TEXAS  RANGER 

How  a  member  of  the  border  police  saved  the  life  of  an  innocent  man,  followed  a 
fugitive  to  Wyoming,  and  then  passed  through  deadly  peril  to  ultimate  happiness. 

WYOMING 

In  this  vivid  story  the  author  brings  out  the  turbid  life  of  the  frontier  with  all  its 
engaging  dash  and  vigor. 
RIDGWAY  OF  MONTANA 

The  «cene  is  laid  in  the  mining  centers  of  Montana,  where  politics  and  mining  in* 
dustries  are  the  religion  of  the  country. 

BUCKY  O'CONNOR 

Every  chapter  teem»  with  wholesome,  stirring  adventures,  replete  with  the  dishing 
spirit  of  the  border. 
CROOKED  TRAILS  AND  STRAIGHT 

A  story  of  Arizona  ;  of  swift-riding  men  and  daring  outlaws ;  of  a  bitter  feud  be- 
tween cattle-men  and  sheep-herders. 
BRAND  BLOTTERS 

A  story  of  the  turbid  life  of  the  frontier  with  a  charming  love  interest  running 
through  Us  page*. 
STEVE  YEAGER 

A  story  brimful  of  excitement,  with  eo«ugh  gun-play  and  adventure  t«  suit  anyoa*. 
A  DAUGHTER  OF  THE  DONS 

A  Western  story  of  romance  and  adventure,  comprising  a  vivacious  and  stirrimg 
tale. 
THE  HIGH  GRADER 

A  breezy,  pleasant  and  amusing  love  story  of  Western  mining  life. 
THE  PIRATE  OF  PANAMA 

A  tale  of  old-time  pirates  and  of  modern  love,  hate  and  adventure. 
THE  YUKON  TRAIL 

A  crisply  entertaining  love  story  in  the  land  wnere  might  make*  right. 
THE  VISION  SPLENDID 

In  which  two  cousins  are  contestants  for  the  same  priw. ;  political  honors  and  th. 
hand  of  a  girl. 
THE   SHERIFF'S  SON 

The  hero  finally  conquers  both  himself  and  hi.  enemi..  and  win.  the  lor,  oi  a 
wonderful  girl. ^ . • 

GROSSFT  &  DUNLAP,          PUBLISHERS,          NEW  YORK 


JACK    LONDON'S    NOVELS 

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JOHN  BARLEYCORN.    Illustrated  by  H.  T.  Dunn. 

This  remarkable  book  is  a  record  of  the  author's  own  amazing 
experiences.  This  big,  brawny  world  rover,  who  has  been  ac- 

gaainted  with  alcohol  from  boyhood,  comes  out  boldly  against  John 
arleycorn.    It  is  a  string  of  exciting  adventures,  yet  it  forcefully 
conveys  an  tmforgetable  idea  and  makes  a  typical  Jack  London  book. 

THE  VALLEY  OF  THE  MOON.   Frontispiece  by  George  Harper. 

The  story  opens  in  the  city  slums  where  Billy  Roberts,  teamster 
and  ex-prize  fighter,  and  Saxon  Brown,  laundry  worker,  meet  and 
love  and  marry.  They  tramp  from  one  end  of  California  to  the 
other,  and  in  the  Valley  of  the  Moon  find  the  farm  paradise  that  is 
to  be  their  salvation. 
BURNING  DAYLIGHT.  Four  illustrations. 

The  story  ot  an  adventurer  who  went  to  Alaska  and  laid  the 
foundations  of  his  fortune  before  the  gold  hunters  arrived.  Bringing 
his  fortunes  to  the  States  he  is  cheated  out  of  it  by  a  crowd  of  money 
kings,  and  recovers  it  only  at  the  muzzle  of  his  gun.  He  then  starts 
out  asja  merciless  exploiter  on  his  own  account.  Finally  he  takes  to 
drinking  and  becomes  a  picture  of  degeneration.  About  this  time 
he  falls  in  love  with  his  stenographer  and  wins  her  heart  but  not 
her  hand  and  then — but  read  the  story! 
A  SON  OF  THE  SUN.  Illustrated  by  A.  O.  Fischer  and  C.  W.  Ashley. 

David  Grief  was  once  a  light-haired,  blue-eyed  youth  who  came 
from  England  to  the  South  Seas  in  search  of  adventure.  Tanned 
like  A  native  and  as  lithe  as  a  tiger,  he  became  a  real  son  of  the  sun. 
The  life  appealed  to  him  and  he  remained  and  became  very  wealthy. 

THE  CALL  OF  THE  WILD.  Illustrations  by  Philip  R.  Goodwin  and 

Charles  Livingston  Bull.    Decorations  by  Charles  E.  Hooper. 

A  book  of  dog  adventures  as   exciting  as  any  man's  exploits 

could  be.    Here  is  excitement  to  stir  the  blood  and  here  is  picttuv 

esque  color  to  transport  the  reader  to  primitive  scenes 

THE  SEA  WOLF.    Illustrated  by  W.  J.  Aylward. 

Told  by  a  man  whom  Fate  suddenly  swings  from  his  fastidious 
life  into  the  power  of  the  brutal  captain  of  a  sealing  schooner.  A 
novel  of  adventure  warmed  by  a  beautiful  love  episode  that  every 
reader  will  hail  with  delight. 

WHITE  FANG.    Illustrated  by  Charles  Livingston  Bull. 

'White  Fang"  is  part  dog,  part  wolf  and  all  brute,  living  in  the 
frozen  north ;  he  gradually  comes  under  the  spell  of  man's  com« 
panionship,  and  surrenders  all  at  the  last  in  a  fight  with  a  bull  dog. 
Thereafter  he  is  man's  loving  slave.  __ 

GROSSET   &   DUNLAP,  PUBLISHERS,   NEW   YORK 


B.  M.  BOWER'S  NOVELS 

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CHIP  OF  THE  FLYING  U.    Wherein  the  love  affairs  of  Chip  and 

Delia  Whitman  are  charmingly  and  humorously  told. 
THE  HAPPY  FAMILY.     A  lively  and  amusing  story,  dealing  vritk 

the  adventures  of  eighteen  jovial,  big  hearted  Montana  cowboys. 
HER  PRAIRIE  KNIGHT.  Describing  a  gay  party  of  Easterner? 
~  who  exchange  a  cottage  at  Newport  for  a  Montana  ranch-houte. 
THE  RANGE  DWELLERS.  Spirited  action,  a  range  feud  b«- 

two  families,  and  a  Romeo  and  Juliet  courtthip  make  this  a  bright, 

jolly  story. 
THE  LURE  OF  THE  DIM  TRAILS.     A  vivid  portayal  of  the 

experience  of  an  Eastern  author  among  the  cowboys. 
THE  LONESOME  TRAIL.     A  little  branch  of  sage  brush  and  the 
""recollection  of  a  pair  of  large  brown  eyes  upset  "Weary"  David- 

son's  plans. 

THE  LONG  SHADOW^     A  vigorous  Western  etor?',  sparkling  with 
'   the  free  outdoor  We  oi'a  mountain  ranch.    It  is  a  fine  love  itory. 
GOOD  INDIANA     A  stirring  romance  of  Mfe  on  an  Idaho  ranch, 
PLYING  U  RANCH.     Another  delightful  story  abou*  Chip  and 

THE  FLYING  ITS  LAST  STAND.     An  amusing  account  of  Chip 

"and  the  other  boys  opposing  a  party  of  school  teachers. 

THF.  UPHILL  CLIMB.     A  story  of  a  mountain  ranch  and  of  a 

"man's  hard  fight  on  the  uphill  road  to  manliness. 

THE  PHANTOM  HERD.     The  title  of  a  moving-picture  staged 

"Sew  Mexico  by  the  "Flying  U "  boys. 

E  HERITAGEOTTHESIOUX.     The"  Flying  U 
fake  bank  robbery  tor  him  purpose,  which  precede,  a  real  on. 

jTOGRINGOSL     A  story  of  love  and  adventure  on  a  ranch  if 
THE  DESERT.     A  New  Mexico  ranch  .W  of  my» 
.     ANorthernCalifornia-oryfullof.rto 


excitement  and  love. 

gZ^TTr^KLAP.        PUBLISHERS.        NEW  Yo« 


SEWELL    FORD'S  STORIES 

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SHORTY  McCABE.      Illustrated  by  Francis  Vaux  Wilson. 

A  very  hu  norous  story,    The  hero,  an  independent  and  vigoroui 
thinker,  sees  life,  and  tells  about  it  in  a  very  unconventional  way. 
SIDE-STEPPING  WITH  SHORTY. 
3Illustrated  by  Francis  Vaux  Wilson. 

Twenty  skits,    presenting  people  with  their  foibles,     Sympathy 
with  human  nature  and  an  abounding  sense  of  humor  are  the  requi- 
sites for  "side-stepping  with  Shorty." 
SHORTY  McCABE  ON  THE  JOB. 
Illustrated  by  Francis  Vaux  Wilson. 

Shorty  McCabe  reappears  with  his  figures  of  speech  revamped 
right  up  to   the  minute.      He  aids  in    the  right  distribution  of  a 
"  conscience  fund,"    and   gives  joy  to   all   concerned. 
SHORTY  McCABE'S  ODD  NUMBERS, 
Illustrated  by  Francis  Vaux  Wilson. 

These  further  chronicles  of  Shorty  McCabe  tell  of  his  studio  for 
physical  culture,  and  of  his  experiences  both  on  the  East  side  and  at 
swell  yachting  parties. 
TORCHY.      Illus,  by  Geo.  Biehm  and  Jas.  Montgomery  Flagg. 

A   red-headed  office  boy,  overflowing   with  wit  and  wisdom  pe- 
culiar to  the  youths  reared  on  the  sidewalks  of  New  York,  tells  the 
story  of  his  experiences. 
TRYING  OUT  TORCHY.      Illustrated  by  F.  Foster  Lincoln. 

Torchy   is  just  as  deliriously  funny  in  these  stories  as  he  was  in 
the  previous  book. 
ON  WITH  TORCHY.      Illustrated  by  F.  Foster  Lincoln. 

Torchy  falls  desperately  in  love  with  "the  only  girl  that  ever 
was,"  but  that  young  society  woman's  aunt  tries  to  keep  the  young 
people  apart,  which  brings  about  many  hilariously  funny  situations, 
TORCHY.  PRIVATE  SEC.  Illustrated  by  F.  Foster  Lincoln. 

Torchy  rises  from  the  position  of  office  boy  to  that  of  secretary 
for  the  Corrugated  Iron  Company.    The  story  is  full  of  humor  and 
Infectious  American  slang. 
WILT  THOU  TORCHY.      Illus.  by  F.  Snapp  and  A.  W.  Brown. 

Torchy  goes  on  a  treasure  search  expedition  to  the  Florida  West 
Coast,  in  company  with  a  group  of  friends  of  the  Corrugated  Trust 
and  with  his  friend's  aunt,  on  which  trip  Torchy  wins  the  aunt's 
permission  to  place  an  engagement  ring  on  Vee's  finger. 

GROSSET  &  DUNLAP,        PUBLISHERS,         NEW  YORK 


A"'    I  I  I   II    I 
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